


Attractive Opposites

by Ariana (ariana_paris)



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Behavior, Casual Racism, Episode: s05e08 Fifty-One Percent, F/M, Office Romance, Romantic Comedy, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2020-07-31 00:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20106490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariana_paris/pseuds/Ariana
Summary: Gilfoyle likes Monica. Monica doesn’t like Gilfoyle. Or at least she doesn’t until she knows he likes her. Not that she wants a relationship with him, of course. They are complete opposites, after all. But you know what they say about opposites…





	1. Bootloader

**Author's Note:**

> So I was happily bingeing _Silicon Valley_ with no fandom feels, laughing at the very accurate parody of the world which I inhabit as a software engineer. And then there was that “I like you” in the season 5 finale and suddenly this happened…
> 
> I don’t usually have quite this much colourful language in my fics, but this is _Silicon Valley_ and it would be untrue to the characters to not let them speak the way they do on the show. I also don’t usually write in the present tense. But my bunny wanted me to write this and it wanted me to write it this way. Who am I to argue?
> 
> Special thanks to [sweetleaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetleaf) and [okie-artgrrl](https://okie-artgrrl.tumblr.com/)for betaing and suggestions! And to [mkmetz](https://mkmetz.tumblr.com/) for all the amazing art.
> 
> [ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/2476962134cf296c19405d079f2beaa1/66e662396c9ea54c-ae/s1280x1920/8a86caed47087951d7f45bcc62f6b74335945b09.jpg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bootloader is a program that is the first thing to start when you turn on a device. It usually loads other programs.

“I like you,” he says, except this time he doesn’t pause awkwardly and add “not in a—you understand what I’m saying.”

This time, he takes the mug of expensive Pappy Van Winkle from her hands, and then leans in and kisses her, because inexplicably, they’re no longer in the office with everyone, celebrating the defeat of the 51% attack. They’re somewhere else and it doesn’t matter where because he’s kissing her and it’s amazing, warm and exciting and enough to give her butterflies. And then they’re back in the office that night they uncovered the attack and instead of sitting beside him, watching him code, she’s straddling his lap, her hands fisted in his long hair and then they’re fucking on her desk and that’s amazing too. 

Monica sits up in her bed with a start.

“What the actual _fuck_?” she asks the empty room.

* * * * *

“... And we’re going to start recruiting for a new Head of IT who will be in Gilfoyle’s team alongside Becky,” Jared explains, waving at the organizational chart projected on the large screen in their conference room. “And then Danny and our new Head of QA, when he or she joins, will be reporting into Dinesh.”

“Sounds painful. How far into Dinesh are we talking?” asks Gilfoyle in a monotone.

It’s the Monday after the attack and they’re holding their weekly Senior Management meeting in the glass conference room in the middle of the office. Dinesh and Gilfoyle have usually taken turns avoiding the meeting, but they’re both here today, seated opposite Monica and Jared. Richard occupies the head of the conference table.

“Why do I get QA?” whines Dinesh. “All testers ever do is poke holes in everything you write, and then ask why it doesn’t work when they use it completely the wrong way!”

“Yes, I can see how _you_ might have a problem with Quality Assurance,” says Gilfoyle slowly. “Their job is basically to tell developers their code is shit. And your code plumbs new depths of sewage with every pull request. But we can swap if you like. QA for IT.”

Dinesh widens his eyes in feigned horror. “IT? People who _choose_ to spend their time installing Microsoft Office updates and asking users if they’ve turned it off and on again? No way. I’m keeping the testers!”

“Well, glad we got that clear,” grumbles Richard.

As Jared steers the conversation on to various productivity tools he thinks they should adopt, Monica takes the opportunity to observe Gilfoyle. Not for the first time, she wonders what his “I like you” really meant. Was it an expression of professional admiration, or a blurted out confession which he immediately felt compelled to retract? Part of her hopes it’s the former: with his unkempt beard, shaggy long hair and thick glasses, Gilfoyle is an unlikely candidate for a starring role in her night-time fantasies. She usually likes her men to be better groomed. And nicer to the people around them. So she definitely doesn’t want a relationship with him.

“And I talked to Atlassian about giving us a discount on their Jira Cloud subscription,” says Jared. “That will allow us to track our development projects electronically and run regular reports on our progress. It’s a really good product.”

“No, it isn’t,” says Dinesh, shaking his head. “Jira is a bloated bug-tracking tool designed to give project managers and C-levels the illusion they can control development projects by counting tickets and burndown charts.”

“Much as I hate to agree with our couscous-eating friend here, he has a point,” says Gilfoyle, somehow managing to shoehorn casual racism into the simplest statement. “Everybody hates it.”

“Well, okay, but also, everybody uses it,” retorts Richard. “And, um, I for one could do with more visibility on our progress.”

“I see.” Gilfoyle gives him a dark look. “You want to use it to spy on us.”

“You could just ask us for a progress report, you know,” says Dinesh. “It’s not like we don’t have physical boards around the place with the status of our tickets.”

“But obviously,” says Gilfoyle, “seeing them would involve coming out of your goldfish bowl sometimes.”

“Oh right, and when I do ask for a status report, I get ‘fuck off, Dick, and stop asking!’” complains Richard. 

Jared raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Jira will also allow people to work remotely, which is something several staff have already requested. It would make our workplace more family-friendly while still encouraging teamwork.”

“Come on, guys.” Monica smiles. “Happy employees and Richard not asking for status updates all the time, what’s not to like?”

Gilfoyle only glances at her briefly, but she thinks she can see a quirk of a smile in his thick beard. He takes a sip from his “Drink Coffee Hail Satan” mug and that reminds her of another thing she doesn’t like about him: in addition to the poor grooming and racist jokes, he’s a Satanist, for crying out loud, like that’s a thing anybody believes in. Just another geeky Silicon Valley douchebro trying to make himself more interesting by being an obnoxious asshole.

“And on a more cheerful note,” continues Jared, “I realize there was an impromptu celebration in the office last week when we defeated the attack, but I think we should have an official party. I’ll gather up some ideas and schedule something for next month.”

“That’s right, you guys celebrated without us,” says Dinesh, turning to Gilfoyle beside him. “Was it a good party at least?”

Gilfoyle shrugs and doesn’t look at Monica. “Oh, you know. The usual. People got drunk and made fools of themselves.”

It could be a general statement, but Monica has the strong feeling that he’s talking about himself, and he’s unlikely to think expressing professional respect is foolish. She finds the idea of him being attracted to her unexpectedly pleasing. She’s intrigued to think that she might be attractive enough to motivate a man as reserved as Gilfoyle to express any emotion at all.

She examines that thought and mentally rolls her eyes. After years of working in Silicon Valley, she should know better than to think that borderline incel geeks are brooding, emotionally-repressed romantic heroes.

To put an end to this unproductive train of thought, Monica remembers her dream and tries to imagine what it would really be like to have sex with Gilfoyle. She’s found in the past that picturing work colleagues sweating and grunting on top of her is generally a good way to cleanse her mind of any romantic thoughts about them. On the other hand, it’s hard to imagine Gilfoyle sweating or grunting. Or smiling, or laughing. Or even losing his temper.

“...And Monica’s been looking for new offices. Maybe you could give us a status update?”

Monica blinks at Jared and realizes she hasn’t been listening because she’s been thinking about sex with Gilfoyle. Oh shit.


	2. Pair Programming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica continues to struggle with her newfound interest in Gilfoyle and discovers the existence of Tara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pair programming is an Agile development practice whereby two developers work together on one task. The right pair can lead to great improvements in code quality. Though it’s never mentioned in Agile literature, a poor pair can lead to poor progress and no great improvement in the code produced. And resentment all around.

“Hey, Dinesh, you got a minute?” asks Gilfoyle.

“No.” Dinesh picks up his phone and a printed resume from his desk. “I have another front-end dev to interview. Ready, Becky?”

Becky gets up. “Okay, yeah. Gilfoyle, I told you. You need to ask someone who isn’t technical. Ask Jared or Monica.”

Dinesh and Becky hurry past Gilfoyle’s desk and he turns to watch them go. His facial expression doesn’t change, but he swivels his chair back to face his screen with what Monica thinks looks like dejection. He apparently has no intention of asking Monica, even though she’s sitting right here, a couple of desks away. 

She briefly weighs up the risk that talking to him will uncover whatever monster web of complications lies behind his “I like you.” It’s been over a week and they’ve both been avoiding each other—though with Gilfoyle, it’s hard to tell if it’s deliberate. But this can’t continue forever; the only way to tackle this is head on. She leans back in her chair.

“Something you need to ask me, Gilfoyle?”

“No.” Gilfoyle pauses for a moment, then turns his chair toward her and sighs. “Yes. I’m adapting a cryptocurrency presentation I’ve written for a Girls Who Code meetup tonight, and um, I’ve been told I need to get feedback from someone who isn’t an engineer. So—” He indicates Becky’s empty chair beside his. “Sit.” 

Intrigued, Monica comes to sit beside him. Gilfoyle opens PowerPoint, takes a deep breath and launches into the presentation, occasionally switching to the terminal to illustrate a technical point. Monica has always been fascinated by the way engineers interact with the dark terminal console, making reams of incomprehensible text appear at the touch of surprisingly few keystrokes, and Gilfoyle is a master in this domain.

As she watches him type, she notices that the fine brown hairs on his arms extend onto his slim hands and fingers. She wonders how hairy his body is under the gray long-sleeved top and plaid shirt he’s wearing. She does like the manly look of a moderately hairy chest.

“So as you can see on this demo,” he says, pointing his skull-clad forefinger at the screen, “the hash of the previous entry has been included in the new block, so you can always trace back through the lineage of each entry, while guaranteeing that it hasn’t been tampered with.”

Monica realizes she’s been looking at Gilfoyle’s hands and daydreaming about his body; this is apparently becoming a recurring habit. She turns her attention to the screen and tries to concentrate on the presentation. There’s more passion in his voice than usual as he extolls the virtues of a world devoid of banks and all-powerful financial institutions, and for a moment, Monica almost believes him.

“So, what do you think?” he asks suddenly when he has finished.

“Uh,” she starts, trying to remember which parts she understood. “I mean, I liked the history part at the beginning, but given your audience, you probably need less history and more explanation of the basics. I don’t actually know what a hash is, for example. I mean, I’ve sat through enough technical pitches to know it’s something to do with passwords, but maybe you can teach these girls something useful.”

Gilfoyle looks surprised, as if it has never occurred to him that someone wouldn’t know what a hash is. But then he flicks back to a diagram of interlinked cryptocurrency blocks in the presentation.

“A hash is a one-way mathematical algorithm that turns a block of data into a fixed size array of bytes which is unique to that input. Depending on the strength of the algorithm used, it’s unfeasible to crack a hash to get the original value back.”

“Oh, is that why hashes are used for passwords?” asks Monica.

“Exactly!” Gilfoyle nods excitedly. “Passwords are hashed by the application before they’re written to the database, so even if the data is stolen, the hackers only get a bunch of hashes. The only way to reverse a hash is to brute force it: you try all the possible combinations that the input could be and run them through your hashing algorithm until you find one that matches the hash, and then you’ve got your password.”

“Is that how you cracked the password on that refrigerator?”

Monica is sure she detects a hint of pride in Gilfoyle’s smile. “Yeah. I had to overclock my server rig but it got Jian-Yang’s password in under 12 hours.”

“So what’s the point if any guy with a server in his garage can crack a hash?”

“Well, Jian-Yang’s password wasn’t so hard,” admits Gilfoyle. “Seppen outsourced their development to a company who cut corners. To make up for the very restricted hardware in the refrigerator, they only used an MD5 hash with no salt.” He doesn’t explain what a salt is but he’s so enthusiastic that Monica doesn’t want to interrupt. “Jian-Yang created a ten-digit alphanumeric password but Dinesh watched him type it in; he told me how long it was and some of the characters it contained. With that information, I was able to reduce the input set to a more manageable amount.”

“I get it. You couldn’t have done it without Dinesh,” she says teasingly. She refocuses on the purpose of their chat. “So for cryptocurrency, you said hashes are used to make sure nobody is falsifying blocks?”

“Yes, each link contains the hash of the previous header. So if you tamper with one of the blocks, say to give yourself more coins, you have to rewrite the whole chain. That makes your block worthless because it isn’t part of the main chain.”

He starts to explain how cryptocurrency mining works and Monica’s mind drifts. She watches with interest as his thick beard moves with his lips. She was surrounded by beards recently when Dinesh and Richard decided to grow one as part of some dumb bet, and finds them intriguing. They weren’t in fashion when she did most of her dating in her teens and early twenties, and she’s never really thought about how different it might be to kiss a man with a beard. She wonders what Gilfoyle’s lips would feel like—

She suddenly realizes he’s stopped talking.

“I’m boring you,” he says flatly.

“No! Um, well— I guess that was a little too much detail. Perhaps just explain what a hash is and that it helps with the scarcity and tampering to make cryptocurrency more valuable, and I guess that will do.” She looks him over. “You probably need to work on your presentation style, too. This is for girls in high school, right? So I think you need to, you know, try and be less scary.”

“You really think I’m scary?” he asks softly. The thought visibly pleases him.

“_I_ don’t,” she says calmly. “But I think teenage girls might find the Satanic Grizzly Adams thing a little intimidating.”

“Fuck you,” he says goodnaturedly. 

She laughs at that, and he gives her a gap-toothed grin. Then his features relax into a more serious expression, a look that Monica immediately recognizes. It’s a little strange to see it on Gilfoyle’s normally sardonic features, his dark eyes drifting down to her lips, his own lips parted as his breathing quickens. Strange, but also weirdly not unpleasant. If they were anywhere else, Monica knows she would only have to smile at him, or lean closer, and he would kiss her.

But they’re sitting at his desk in the open plan Pied Piper office in the middle of the working day. Gilfoyle makes a gruff little sound and lowers his eyes to his illuminated keyboard. Monica shifts on Becky’s borrowed seat, pretending to look at the presentation again.

Before either of them can find anything to say, they’re interrupted by raised voices in the kitchen area.

“Well, _you_ fucking do it, then, if you’re such an expert!” says Becky, who is apparently finished with the interview she was conducting with Dinesh.

“Yeah, that’s it, run away,” says Danny, clearly the recipient of her outburst. “Just like you always do!”

Dinesh is standing beside him in the kitchen, looking puzzled. Monica notices that Jared is also watching the scene from his desk beside Richard’s office. She vacates Becky’s chair as she comes back to her desk.

“Everything okay, Becky?” asks Monica.

“Sure. Just Danny being an asshole,” grumbles Becky, sitting at her workstation.

“What else is new?” mutters Gilfoyle.

Monica smiles in sympathy. “It’s tough working with your ex. I’ve been there, believe me. I don’t ever want to go there again.”

Gilfoyle is adding a slide on hash algorithms to his PowerPoint, but Monica notices that he gives her a side-eyed glance.

“Anyway, I should really—” She waves at her desk. “Good luck with the presentation tonight, Gilfoyle.”

* * * * *

“Jared, we can’t forbid people from dating coworkers,” says Richard flatly.

As per usual, Jared has compiled a list of agenda items for their weekly Senior Management meeting. Top of today’s agenda is his long-desired fraternization policy.

“I knew this would be a controversial topic,” says Jared calmly, “but I think we all witnessed Becky and Danny’s outburst the other day. At the very least, we need guidelines, a framework on what is acceptable and what isn’t.”

“Yes, but I mean, how are people going to find people to date if they can’t date coworkers, right?” asks Richard, fiddling with a pen.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. There are so many other ways to meet someone,” says Jared, visibly puzzled. “A bar, the mall, social clubs…”

“Tech conferences, unsolicited emails...” says Dinesh.

“Satanist funerals...” says Gilfoyle.

Dinesh turns to look at him with mild curiosity. “Is that where you met Tara?”

“The girlfriend before her,” explains Gilfoyle. “I actually met Tara in a bar, but Jared already did that one.”

“How does that work?” asks Dinesh. “Do you just walk up to a woman and say ‘hey, I want an open, hedonistic relationship with you?’ Or do you chat them up and hope they’re into that kind of thing?”

“She was wearing a Hail Satan t-shirt so I think it was fair to assume some degree of common ground.”

Monica lets that information sink in for a moment, wondering why nobody, including Gilfoyle, has ever mentioned this girlfriend before. Or the “open, hedonistic relationship,” for that matter.

“Chloe was wearing a Pied Piper t-shirt when we met at the bus stop,” says Jared with a happy smile. “It was when I took your shirt to be cleaned, Richard. You know, that time you threw up all the way down your front.”

“Like that narrows it down,” mutters Richard.

“To get back on topic,” says Monica, “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to set guidelines on personal relationships in a professional setting. Jared’s right, Danny and Becky are a cautionary tale for us all.”

“So you think we should fire one of them just because they fucked and it didn’t work out?” asks Gilfoyle dourly.

Jared shakes his head. “No, that would be too extreme. But we wouldn’t be in this situation if we’d had a robust policy in the first place.”

“This is ridiculous.” Richard frowns stubbornly. “We’re all adults here, we can’t tell people they can’t date each other!”

“_You_ definitely can’t date anyone here anyway, because you’re everyone’s boss,” points out Dinesh. “Same as I can’t date, I don’t know, Priyanka. Assuming I’d want to date a bitch who’s still bleeding me dry with the payments for her Tesla.”

Sensing an ally, Jared gestures at Dinesh. “Okay. So that’s uncontroversial, right? We can all agree that a manager shouldn’t date his or her direct or indirect reports.”

“So you’re saying Pied Piper employees have to consult the fucking org chart to see if it’s okay to have the hots for someone?” asks Gilfoyle.

“What if they’re on the same level in the org chart?” asks Dinesh. “Is that okay? Can Priyanka date, I don’t know, Holden or someone?”

Jared spreads his hands. “That still leaves the Danny and Becky problem.”

“Then you tell them to grow the fuck up,” says Gilfoyle. “I don’t think we should interfere in anyone’s private lives. ‘Do what thou wilt, that is the whole of the law.’”

“Aleister Crowley aside,” says Jared thoughtfully, “I see your point about the difference, Dinesh. And you’re right, perhaps some concrete examples would help. I feel it would be unfair to use our employees, so maybe with your permission, Monica, I’ll take you as an example?”

“Um, okay,” says Monica, curious to see where he’s going with this.

“Thank you. Right. If, for example, Monica dates Richard, that’s a problem because he’s her boss and he might take unfair advantage of his position in the relationship—”

“What?” says Richard in outrage. “I wouldn’t—”

“—But if she dates, for example, Gilfoyle, then do we think that’s okay?” asks Jared. “Hypothetically.”

“Wait, why’s she dating Gilfoyle instead of me?” protests Dinesh. “Hypothetically.”

“Because she doesn’t date losers who can’t code, obviously,” says Gilfoyle dryly.

“I’m not dating any of you, okay?” says Monica, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t look at Gilfoyle.

Jared nods understandingly. “I’m sorry for singling you out, Monica. It’s just with you being the only woman in the senior management team—”

“Don’t I know it,” mutters Monica.

“—Which is a good point, actually.” Jared frowns at his draft. “I think this wording is too orientation specific. I mean, we want to make it clear that if Monica might hypothetically date Gilfoyle, obviously, it follows that, say, Gilfoyle could hypothetically date Dinesh.”

“The _fuck_, Jared?” exclaims Dinesh with horror.

Gilfoyle’s brown eyes, magnified by his thick glasses, narrow in amusement and a smile appears in his dark beard. “Well, you _do_ really dig my code.”

“Fuck you, Gilfoyle!”

“Yeah, like I’d bottom for you, loser,” says Gilfoyle without missing a beat. “You can’t even hypothetical-date Monica.”

He catches Monica’s eye and grins at her. In spite of herself, she smiles back before putting on a more serious expression. Dinesh is too consumed with trying to find a witty comeback to notice, and the other two are poring over the policy.

“You know what,” says Richard suddenly. “I agree with Jared. Nobody should be dating anyone!”

“Yeah, I agree too,” says Dinesh petulantly. “Office romances are out. Hypothetical or not.”

Monica just nods, certain that this is the right decision to minimize unfortunate situations. Gilfoyle says nothing, though he looks up at the ceiling and heaves a heavy sigh. With four in favor and no objections, Jared ticks off the item on the sheet. 

“Now, about the toilet paper,” continues Jared. “I’ve had several complaints that it’s too rough...”

* * * * *

Sometimes, Monica hates smoking. Technically, what she’s doing right now is vaping, but she’s still standing beside the dumpsters in the alley behind their building with all the other addicts: the neurotic building receptionist; the big fat white guy and the skinny black guy with glasses from the company upstairs; a couple of her fellow Pipers who head back inside after a few puffs. She’s thinking about abandoning her current fix in favor of more savory surroundings, when Gilfoyle comes around the side of the building. He doesn’t usually smoke during office hours; she suspects that his high opinion of his own dignity easily defeats his addiction when it comes to standing near the dumpsters. 

She’s not sure because it’s so fleeting, but she thinks she detects a note of hesitation before he confidently walks over to her.

“Hey,” she says. “If you’ve come to steal a cigarette again, you’re out of luck. I’m trying out vaping.”

“It’s okay, I’ve quit.”

“Yeah. I do that all the time too.”

“So we do have something in common.”

He looks mildly amused, as if this is the punchline to some internal conversation he’s been having. He apparently has no intention of explaining why he’s out here when he isn’t even smoking, so she assumes he just wants to talk to her. Maybe he’s decided to tackle this thing head on too.

“Smells nice,” he adds.

“This one is called Cucumber Cutie,” she explains. “Raviga funded the company so I got free samples of various flavors last year. I pulled a dress out of my wardrobe the other day and it smelled like an ashtray. I guess that’s what I must smell like when I smoke cigarettes.”

“Yeah, you do, but I don’t mind,” says Gilfoyle as if his opinion matters. He indicates the vaporizer. “I’ve thought about getting one too. A silver and black one, maybe. But then it occurred to me I’d look like some hipster douchenozzle.” His eyes widen as he says that as if he’s run the sentence through some content filter she didn’t even know he had. “Not that—I mean, _you_ look elegant and sophisticated.”

“Nice save,” she says with amusement.

She’s a bit weirded out by this sensible, normal conversation they’re having. But it feels like the first conversation she’s had in months that wasn’t about Pied Piper, or investment funding, or her best friend’s toddler. It’s kind of nice, she thinks.

“How did the Girls Who Code meetup go?” she asks.

“Okay. They say they’ll send me a link to the video when it’s done.”

He leans against the wall beside her and says nothing for a moment. He apparently isn’t concerned about looking odd, as if he’s chosen to be here by the dumpsters even though he isn’t smoking. Mildly concerned that someone might see them and think something is up, Monica takes another drag from the e-cigarette and thinks about going back inside.

“I split up with my girlfriend.” he says.

Monica is so surprised by the change of topic that it takes her a moment to react. And then her heart sinks; she hopes the split had nothing to do with her. Erotic dreams notwithstanding, she doesn’t want to be responsible for the breakup of a relationship when she’s not even sure she likes Gilfoyle that much.

“It was a couple of months ago,” he continues. “She works in Boston. We decided the long-distance thing wasn’t working.” 

He gives a little shrug and Monica gets the feeling he isn’t the one who made that decision. 

“I guess I didn’t tell Dinesh,” he concludes. “You know, um, that’s why he mentioned her in that meeting earlier.”

Now Monica _definitely_ knows he didn’t make the decision.

“I thought you might want to know.” He gives her a searching look. “Just in case you were curious.”

“Oh, I—I’m sorry to hear that,” she stammers. “I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but I know breakups can be tough. Well, you already know about my marriage,” she adds, remembering that Gilfoyle was present when she told Richard.

“Yeah. Did he lie to you too?” When Monica makes a noncommittal noise—this isn’t something she wants to discuss with him—Gilfoyle seems to take it as an invitation to unburden himself. “I told her she didn’t need to lie to me. That’s the whole point of an open relationship. You do as you please, but you’re honest about it. I guess her interpretation of an open relationship was me holding my dick in California while she fucked half the guys in Boston.”

“Half the guys in Boston sounds like a lot,” says Monica, not too sure what she’s meant to do with all this information. “I mean, assuming Boston has the same kind of population as Baltimore, say about 600,000 in total, and that half of those are men, then half the men in Boston would be 150,000. That’s a lot of guys.”

“Right. Plus a whole chunk of those would be too old or too young. Or gay.” Gilfoyle looks thoughtful for a moment, as if pondering a serious problem. “Okay. So assuming a rate of two guys a week for the two years we went out, that would only be—”

“208 guys?” says Monica, who aced mental arithmetic at school.

Gilfoyle nods. “So okay, maybe 0.13 percent of the guys in Boston.” He pauses. “Or I guess it was just the one guy she’s with now.” 

His facial expression doesn’t change, but he sighs, momentarily lost in thought. He looks kind of bummed and Monica feels an instinctive need to say something to cheer him up. She can’t think of anything that won’t sound like a platitude, so she just blurts out the thought that’s at the top of her head instead.

“I guess I don’t know what the rules are in an open relationship. I mean, on the plus side, I suppose you had, um, opportunities too?”

Maybe it’s the coy wording, or perhaps he’s interpreting it as sexual interest on her part, but he gives her an amused look. “I’m a nerd, I don’t get laid that much.”

“Well, I’ve dated enough nerds to know that’s not true,” says Monica, before immediately regretting it. That definitely sounds like flirting. “Um, not that I—”

Not that you what, Monica, you stupid girl? she thinks to herself. He turns to face her fully, still leaning nonchalantly on the wall, and smiles at her. It isn’t the sinister, “I’m about to say something really funny and really mean” smile that he usually has. Just a friendly smile. 

“What about you?” he asks, his deep voice surprisingly soft. “You seeing anyone?”

Monica’s heart does a weird flip in her chest and she debates what to say for a moment. On the one hand, she needs to close down this thing before it develops into anything. Feigning unavailability is a time-honored way of doing that, though she’s not sure how well it works on someone who is into open relationships. Also, they see each other every working day, so making up a fake boyfriend and then maintaining the illusion feels like too much work.

“No. I’ve been busy with Pied Piper. And to be honest, I’m enjoying being single. It’s great to have my place to myself!” she says airily.

“I guess if you hang out with us all the time and you don’t want to date people you work with, you’re kind of limited.” He looks away as if he’s suddenly interested in the overflowing dumpster behind her. “Assuming you’d want to date any of us. You know, hypothetically.”

On the plus side, he was paying attention when she talked about not dating co-workers. But on the other hand, he’s definitely flirting with her and it’s so fucking weird, she thinks he’s broken her brain a bit.

“Uh, well, um—” Deep breath, complete sentences. She lowers her eyes to the vaporizer on her hand. “I mean, I think of you all as friends.”

“No, you don’t,” he says bluntly, though there’s a more familiar look of amusement on his features when she glances up again. “For a start, you tried to date Richard. Before you came to your senses after you saw Little Dick while he was taking a piss.”

“I didn’t try to date him, I just said we could have a drink some time! And it didn’t happen, not because of—” Monica frowns at him. “Wait. He _told_ you?”

Gilfoyle’s smile turns mean again. “Richard’s interactions with women are so rare and pathologically abnormal that he feels the need to share every intimate detail with us.” 

“Us? Who is us?” she asks with alarm. “Oh my God. You mean Jared and Dinesh know about this too? _Jesus_, why the hell would he tell you?!”

“Because he was very excited that an attractive woman asked him out.” Gilfoyle narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “I’m not sure why he wanted us to know about the pissing thing.”

“So that’s it?” Monica turns off the vaporizer. “I’m just an ‘attractive woman’ to brag about to your bros?”

“I don’t think that,” says Gilfoyle seriously. He pauses for a split second, his expression grim. “And much as it pains me to defend such a pathetic specimen of manhood, neither does Richard. You’re here because he needs you. We need you. Because you’re amazing. Um, professionally.”

He looks kind of constipated, as if paying someone a compliment is physically painful. She wonders if he’s been like this with all his girlfriends, and how many there have been, and whether he was in “open” relationships with all of them. But asking any of those questions about his girlfriends will definitely make him think she wants to be the next one. Which she very much doesn’t.

Gilfoyle’s phone starts playing a Heavy Metal noise. He checks it—Monica glimpses the word “Becky” on the screen—then answers.

“Yeah, I’m on my way.” He rings off before Becky can say anything at all. “Turns out I have an interview to conduct, uh, ten minutes ago.”

“Then go! Quickly!”

Despite the urgency of the situation, Gilfoyle walks off at a casual pace. Monica adds running to the mental list of things she can’t imagine Gilfoyle doing. She crosses smiling off the list, though.

She decides to let him go in first and then follow after a few minutes. She reflects that her life is already getting complicated and she isn’t even dating him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In [HBO's "Silicon Valley" | Talks at Google](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOXup8chEoY), Amanda Crew said her first email address was www.cucumber_cutie@hotmail.com


	3. Heat Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heatwave gives Monica the opportunity to realise that Gilfoyle is rather hot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wikipedia: A heat map is a graphical representation of data where the individual values contained in a matrix are represented as colors.

Summer suddenly arrives a few days later with a heatwave that brings unusually high temperatures. This reveals that the air-conditioning in their office is broken. Jared spends a day trying to get the landlord to do something about it, and in the meantime, Monica manages to rent some large fans at great expense.

On day two of the heatwave, Monica is opening up an Excel spreadsheet from one of the realtors who is helping them find new offices when her mouse cursor turns into a multicolored spinning disk.

“Oh, shit,” she moans. Looking around, she realizes that it’s before 10:00 AM and only a couple of the developers are in yet. Fortunately, one of them is sitting not far from her. “Becky, do you know why it’s doing this?”

“Define ‘it’ and ‘this’,” says Becky without looking up.

“Microsoft Excel, and giving me a beach ball.”

Becky sighs and scoots over on her chair. “I got that yesterday. Do you have Visual Studio Code installed?”

“No, why would I—” starts Monica before she remembers Gilfoyle working on her laptop a couple of weeks ago. In the course of that night, he installed a number of things that occasionally pop up to annoy her. She’s still not entirely sure why he didn’t just do all the work on his own machine. “Okay, maybe. But I need these figures. Can you fix it?”

“We really need an IT helpdesk to deal with this shit,” grumbles Becky, though she pulls her chair up to Monica’s desk so she can open some terminal windows. “That massive dildo who calls himself Chief Systems Architect put a bug in our VS Code plugin that crashes the latest Office 365 update.”

Monica smiles. “Gilfoyle created a bug?”

“Yeah. Well, no. It worked fine when he first wrote it, but then this Office update landed last night and you get the beach ball. Dickweed assigned the bug to me, so I guess I know what I’ll be doing all morning.”

“You don’t like working for Gilfoyle?”

“No, I love it.” Becky smiles. “He’s the reason I stayed when the rest of my team walked out. I’m learning a lot of infrastructure stuff that I didn’t get from my CS courses. But you’ve got to admit he’s a dick.”

Monica nods because that is the general consensus. The two women are still poring over the MacBook when half the contents of the Hacker Hostel arrives for work.

“Summer is a-cumen in,” sings Richard happily. “Loudly sing cuckoo. Grows the seed and blows the mead, and springs the wood anew!”

“Summer is the only thing that’s going to be a-cuming in those Bermuda shorts you’re wearing,” comments Gilfoyle.

“Depends how much the wood grows the seed while the mead gets its blowjob, I guess,” chuckles Dinesh, heading off to the nearby kitchen area.

Monica is logging back into her laptop following whatever Becky has done to fix it, but she looks up in time to see Richard saunter into his office, dressed in an ensemble that looks like something out of Bachmanity’s infamous Hawaiian-themed Alcatraz party.

Dinesh is wearing the same kind of clothes as usual, a brightly colored t-shirt and long pants, but Monica discovers to her surprise that, like Richard, Gilfoyle is dressed for the heat wave. Instead of his usual long-sleeved dark tops and plaid shirts, he’s wearing a tight grey t-shirt and long shorts that look like a cut-off version of his usual black pants. They expose his thick, evenly haired calves and Monica momentarily forgets about her temperamental laptop. When he pulls off his backpack, Gilfoyle’s t-shirt gets caught on one of the straps and rides up, exposing a stretch of white flank and hairy stomach.

“Ooh, Gilf! Showing some flesh,” says Becky teasingly.

“You gonna put on a show for us later?” asks Monica with a laugh, getting into the spirit of things.

“Seeing as you practically glow in the dark, you won’t even be needing extra lighting,” says Priyanka from the workstation opposite Gilfoyle’s, craning her neck around her monitors. On the desk next to hers, her friend Meera giggles.

“But maybe work out a bit first, isn’t it,” says Meera in her light Indian accent. 

Becky observes Gilfoyle gravely. “Oh, I don’t know. As a curvy lady myself, I appreciate a man with some bulk to him.”

Monica expects Gilfoyle to have some cutting retort to all this teasing. But instead, he straightens out his t-shirt and looks around at the four women with an unusual expression that almost looks like fear. He gives them all a silent glare and suddenly goes to join Dinesh in the kitchen.

“Oops, I think we scared him off,” says Monica with a laugh.

When he returns with reinforcements—or Dinesh and a can of soda, at any rate—Gilfoyle seems to have regained his usual composure. Instead of sitting at his workstation at the end of their row, though, he follows Dinesh to his desk and looks at something on his screen. They’re apparently planning to put an end to the teasing by doing some actual work.

“I created the tickets from the whiteboard, but now I don’t know where they went,” complains Dinesh. “They’re not on the Scrum board! Where the hell has Jira hidden them?”

“They’re probably in the Backlog, doofus,” says Becky, still sitting at Monica’s desk. “There’s a link over on the left-hand side.”

“Well, there you go, _doofus_,” says Gilfoyle.

As he straightens up and raises his right arm to drink from his can, Monica notices something that instinctively, irrationally causes her stomach to turn.

“Wow, you have an actual Satanist tattoo,” exclaims Becky. “Very hardcore!”

“A friend did it when I was in college,” he explains, holding out his arm to give her a better look. 

Becky stands up to examine the upside-down cross, then pulls down the collar of the summer dress she’s wearing, exposing a small tattoo on her left shoulder. “I’ve got a rose here.”

Monica wonders why people with tattoos always have to show them to each other. Then again, as she can’t imagine any other purpose for a tattoo, maybe that’s why they get them in the first place.

Priyanka and Meera leave their fortress of monitors and come into Monica’s row of desks to take a closer look. Apparently, nobody has any work to do. 

“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way up?” asks Meera, indicating Gilfoyle’s upper arm.

“This isn’t the Christian cross,” explains Gilfoyle patiently. “I’m a Satanist. With Christianity considered the root of Western authoritarianism, its symbol is subverted to represent anti-authoritarianism.”

“It could also be St. Peter’s cross,” points out Monica, still recovering from her automatic shock at the symbol—Catholic schools leave a lasting mark, she thinks wryly.

Gilfoyle looks amused. “A Petrine Cross is a symbol of humility before Christ. Somehow, that doesn’t sound like me.”

“And yet,” says Monica with a shrug, before realizing she sounds just like Laurie.

“He has another one on this shoulder,” volunteers Dinesh, pointing at Gilfoyle’s left shoulder, concealed under the t-shirt. “A circle with a star in it.”

“It’s a pentagram,” says Gilfoyle. He looks around, finds himself surrounded by women, except for Dinesh sitting beside him, and goes to sit at his desk, trying to look nonchalant. “Sorry, show’s over, ladies.”

“You’re quite an expert on Gilfoyle’s tattoos, Dinesh,” says Priyanka with mock curiosity.

Dinesh shrugs. “Well, we do live together. I’ve seen them a few times.”

“Oh, you two actually live together?” asks Meera, wide-eyed.

Priyanka laughs. “I don’t think he means it the way you’re thinking, Meera.” She pretends to look thoughtful. “Though actually, that would explain _so_ much.”

“You know, Gilfoyle, I sometimes think we have too much gender diversity now,” comments Dinesh loudly, giving her a dirty look.

Gilfoyle lounges back in his chair. “You ladies are very lucky my belief system includes being a gentleman. Now get back to work.”

* * * * *

That week’s management meeting is held against the roar of a giant fan which is sadly not an air-conditioning unit. It sits where the rental company dumped it, in the corner of the conference room, blowing warm air directly at the meeting participants.

“Now, as you know, I’ve emailed you all the details of our first 360 performance review process,” explains Jared. “Including the PDR form with the departmental OKRs I’ve drafted.”

Dinesh frowns in concentration. “So we need to agree a set of OKRs, that’s Objective Key Results, that are the things we want to achieve. And then we can use them to set the personal objectives for each employee, and those are used to fill in the Personal Development Review.”

“Well done, Dinesh,” says Gilfoyle. “You can give Teacher an apple at the end of class.”

“I take it you don’t like the new system, Gilfoyle?” says Richard, folding his arms defensively. “What a surprise.”

“You’re damn right I fucking don’t,” retorts Gilfoyle, his relaxed body language a marked contrast with Richard’s tense demeanor. “We’re basically going to score our staff on whether they meet some made-up objective like ‘improve the efficiency of our systems.’ What the fuck does that even mean? And how’s that going to be relevant to the IT helpdesk people when they turn up?”

Jared glances at Monica and Richard before answering. “Gilfoyle, you can tweak the objectives to better suit the goals of your team. They’re just a tool to help you measure the performance of your staff by providing clear goals.”

“Okay. I’m going to set all my staff a clear goal of ‘don’t fuck up.’”

Dinesh appears to consider this. “I guess that’s more generally applicable than ‘deliver a stable, well-tested platform,’ which is what my team got.”

It occurs to Monica that neither Dinesh nor Gilfoyle has ever worked for a corporation for any significant length of time before. She wonders how functional their Senior Management team is going to be with the pair of them bickering like schoolboys all the time. She knows they’re technically competent and being rewarded for their loyalty, but she isn’t sure they’re up to the task of running entire departments for a growing company. Then again, the heat is making her irritable.

“Look, the purpose here isn’t just to give staff a checklist of what’s expected of them,” she explains. “We’re also covering our asses. Right now, everyone on staff is here primarily out of loyalty to Richard.” 

Gilfoyle rolls his eyes. “Or not.”

“Well, whatever the reason,” she continues, “you’ve stuck with him since the start, and the others who didn’t leave when the ICO flopped two months ago were inspired by Richard’s dedication to his vision. But as we grow, we will have more and more people for whom this is just a job. And some of them will be assholes who will try to sue us if they get fired or feel others have been promoted unfairly.”

Jared fixes Gilfoyle with his earnest gaze. “And in those circumstances, the best defence is a good paper trail. Remember how Hooli’s entire case against Richard fell apart because of a technical error in their paperwork? That’s why we need to be sure everything is in order. When you’re dealing with hundreds of employees, you need to take these things into account.”

“Hundreds—Wait, how many people are we talking about hiring here?” asks Richard nervously.

“Not hundreds. I’ve budgeted for fifteen people for the first round of recruitment,” says Monica. “That’ll give us a lower total headcount than you had when you took over the teams from Sliceline and Optimoji, but with a better mix of skills. Jared and I have a couple of strong candidates for the finance positions, and some more operations people to manage the office. We’ll also be looking to kickstart Sales and Marketing.”

Gilfoyle gives her one of his dead-eyed stares. “Why the fuck do we need Sales and Marketing?”

“Yeah, it’s like they’re oil and we’re water, you know?” explains Dinesh. “You mix us together and you get, like, this vile thing.”

“Water with this greasy film on top,” says Gilfoyle, gesturing with his hand. “We just don’t mix.”

“They have a point,” agrees Richard. “We had a sales team under Jack Barker. It didn’t work out.”

“Because they were selling a box you didn’t want to develop and that nobody wanted to buy,” says Monica impatiently. “Look, we’re currently entirely dependent on the income from our Development Partners—” There is no way in hell she is going to use the word “OctoPiper” any more than she has to. “—And that will continue to be the case until we’re safe to exchange more of our PiedPiperCoins for real money that we can reinvest. But to be honest, we’re not getting much revenue from some of our current partners. Colin and his Gates of Galoo are carrying us, and we’re going to need more partners if we’re going to thrive. That means someone has to go out there, find those partners and sell them our network.”

“Can’t we, like, go viral or something?” asks Dinesh.

“Oh sure. If you know how to make that happen, go ahead,” says Monica. “Or maybe we’ll hire an expert in viral marketing and let them do it while we get on with our actual areas of expertise.”

“As long as we don’t hire Jack Barker’s triangle of success people,” says Richard. “You know, Jan ‘the Man’ and ‘Doug, shadowing Keith.’”

“It is very possible we might come across some familiar faces when we start recruiting,” says Jared. “A few of those sales people were rehired at Hooli when Jack Barker was CEO.”

“And Hooli is currently downsizing in preparation for the acquisition by Amazon,” adds Monica, “so there’s quite a flood of ex-Hooli talent on the market, ripe for the taking.”

“Any old friends of yours, Jared?” asks Gilfoyle.

Jared looks at him with a haunted look, but then he regains his composure. “Not that I know of. But Hooli employs a lot of talented people. If we’re lucky, we can get some of them to work for us.”

“I see,” says Dinesh. “You mean Richard went through all the trouble of leaving Hooli to found his own company, only to potentially end up with a company full of Hooli employees? 

Gilfoyle looks unimpressed. “Fuckin’ A.”

* * * * *

“Trey, thank you very much for your time,” says Richard as he and Monica escort one of their Head of Sales candidates to the elevator.

“We’ll let you know. Hopefully today or tomorrow,” says Monica.

She gives him a little wave as the elevator doors close and thinks what a pleasant, handsome young man he is. And how amazingly unsweaty he was during their interview in Richard’s sweltering office.

“Opinions?” asks Richard as they return to the main office and assemble the interview panel. They have to hold the huddle in the kitchen because both their only meeting room and Richard’s office are already taken with another round of interviews.

“I don’t know,” admits Monica, looking at his resumé. “He has a lot of experience of sales for network applications but I’m not sure he’s the right fit for Pied Piper.”

It’s a shame, she thinks, because it would be nice to have more people around who aren’t engineers with questionable hygiene.

“He’s too slick,” says Gilfoyle, whose grey t-shirt is a little damp and malodorous after several hours in their overheated office. “And his name is Trey. Who names their kid after a kitchen accessory?”

“Also, his teeth are too white,” says Dinesh.

Gilfoyle nods. “Yeah. He looks like a toothpaste commercial.”

“And he definitely uses product in his hair.”

As usual, Richard is just letting them ramble as if they’re all still hackers sitting on their asses in Erlich’s incubator and not the senior management of a growing company. Monica gives him a pointed look.

“Uh, guys,” he says weakly, fanning himself with a pizza delivery leaflet.

“Product in his hair?” says Gilfoyle, ignoring him. “This from a man who has a folder called ‘Cool hairstyles’ on his phone?”

“Oh yeah. And what do you have on your phone, huh?” Dinesh asks. “The Satanist’s Guide to Knitting and Crochet?”

Gilfoyle smirks. “Dinesh, I told you that question would eat you inside until you were nothing but—”

“Guys!” says Monica forcefully. “Your professional verdict on the candidate?”

Gilfoyle schools his features into a more serious expression. “He’s not technical enough,” he says. “We need someone who can get more development partners. They need to speak tech. That’s not him.” 

“Don’t get me wrong. He seems like a nice guy,” says Dinesh, his thick eyebrows forming an inverted V. “But I wouldn’t buy a used car from him, let alone a complicated distributed network.”

“You wouldn’t buy a used car from anyone,” points out Gilfoyle. “You’re too much of a spoiled princess. I can’t believe you went out and bought another fucking Tesla. You don’t think that lunatic Musk has enough money?”

“You weren’t complaining when I gave you all a ride to the office this morning,” says Dinesh superciliously. “In my air-conditioned Tesla.”

“Okay, so that’s a no from everyone,” says Richard to bring the huddle to a conclusion. “I’ll let Jared know and we’ll continue the search!”

“Great. More fucking used car salesmen to interview,” grumbles Gilfoyle as he follows Richard and Dinesh out of the kitchen area.

* * * * *

“Okay, that’s fine, I’ll see you next week, Dawn,” says Monica, before hanging up.

She’s standing in the stairwell that runs alongside the elevator in the center of their building, and which is both the only private place to have a phone call in the office, and the coolest part of it. She looks at the time on her phone and decides she’s probably had as much lunch break as she can justify; she reluctantly returns to their office on the sunny side of the building. 

When she enters the Pied Piper office, she’s surprised to find Gilfoyle on his hands and knees by the entrance. He’s rummaging in a dismantled wall panel. 

“Gilfoyle, what are you doing?” she asks, concerned that whatever he’s doing might be prohibited by their lease.

“I think I’ve worked out what’s wrong with the air-conditioning,” he explains, still shoulder-deep in the small hatch.

“Something the contractors the landlord is sending tomorrow can fix, maybe?”

Gilfoyle crawls backward out of the hole and sits up to look at her. “Yeah, or I could fix it right now.”

His hair is partially tied back in a loose half-bun, half-ponytail that clearly has a practical rather than aesthetic purpose, but somehow changes his appearance so radically that Monica can’t help but stare. As she watches, he takes off his glasses and uses the hem of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. It gives Monica another brief glimpse of soft-looking brown hairs on his chest and stomach. He peers up at her blindly and she’s struck by how large his brown eyes are even without the magnification of his glasses.

“I’m so fucking hot,” he says breathlessly.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

She thinks they must make an odd sight, her standing in the middle of the hallway in her silk blouse, pencil skirt and stilettos, and him with a sweat-soaked old t-shirt and black denim shorts, kneeling at her feet. Except for the inverted cross etched on his upper arm, she thinks he looks like the hot plumber who seduces the serious business woman in a softcore porn video.

It also occurs to her that she can now guess what Gilfoyle looks like during sex.

He puts his glasses back on. “Let’s see if this works.”

He gets back onto his hands and knees, and disappears into the hatch. One of the other developers walks past, his eyes glued to his phone. Suddenly self-conscious, Monica turns her back on Gilfoyle.

“Good luck!” she says.

* * * * *

Monica is sitting at her desk reviewing more resumes for Sales managers a few minutes later when she hears a rattling noise from the vent above them and a trickle of cool air starts to come through. A muted cheer rises from the developers behind her as the temperature starts to drop. Priyanka and Meera get up and close the windows, and Holden goes around turning off the rented fans.

Gilfoyle doesn’t immediately come back to his desk; Monica sees him talking to Jared and pointing at a vent, no doubt explaining what he’s done. Jared looks anxious, and while that’s pretty much his natural state, Monica decides not to call the rental company to take the fans back until the morning, just in case Gilfoyle has jury-rigged something unstable.

Most of Monica’s afternoon is spent with Richard in his office, conducting phone interviews to screen the next round of Sales candidates. They take a break after a couple of hours and Monica goes to get herself a drink. She realizes as she enters the open kitchen area that Gilfoyle is already there, putting an empty cereal bowl in the sink.

“Thank you for the air-conditioning,” she says as she passes him. “They say this heatwave won’t last much longer, but it’s good to be cool again. Except for the low humidity, it’s been starting to feel like summers back home.”

“Where’s back home?” he asks with mild curiosity.

“Baltimore. You can’t survive summer without air-conditioning on the East Coast.”

He leans on the counter and smiles at her. “Well, you’re welcome. Jared says I should have let the contractors do it. I think he doesn’t trust me. Something about putting holes in the wall and nearly setting fire to Erlich’s place.”

He has changed out of his sweaty t-shirt and into a black one that says “Apache Kafka” on the front; presumably swag he or someone else picked up at a conference. His hair is untied and it’s back in its usual style, hanging in unkempt waves around his head. It obscures his ears and part of his face that isn’t already hidden behind his beard and glasses, and Monica wonders if that’s deliberate.

On impulse, she pulls out one of the Friday night beers they’re not supposed to have during the week and gives it to him. 

“I think you deserve this,” she says brightly. The cool air does feel amazing.

“Thanks.” He cracks open the beer and takes a long swig, then looks up at the vent thoughtfully. “You know that an air-conditioning system like this works like a refrigerator. It takes the hot air out of the building and pumps it outside. So technically, in trying to keep cool in here, we’re increasing the atmospheric temperature, making the situation worse. And that’s even without taking into account the amount of energy required to cool a wide, open space like this without hermetically sealed doors and windows.”

“I guess with most other office buildings doing it, one single office in one building isn’t going to make much difference,” says Monica.

“Spoken like a true beneficiary of First World prosperity,” he says, though he looks amused. “And that, in a nutshell, is why humanity is fucked.”

He seems about to add something, but then takes another swig of his beer instead; maybe he doesn’t want to have a serious conversation about climate change right now. Monica’s eyes drift to the tattoo on his arm.

“Do you really worship the Devil?” she asks, though she isn’t sure if she wants to know the answer.

“No,” he replies with a frown. “I don’t worship anything. I’m a Laveyan Satanist.”

Monica feels confused. “A ‘Laveyan’ Satanist. You mean to tell me there are several kinds?”

“Of course there are.” Gilfoyle steps away from Monica to let Danny squeeze past to get a drink. “When does any community of humans not fracture into sub-communities? So I’m with the Laveyans.” He smiles. “Anton LaVey was— let’s say, a showman. A San Francisco musician who reinvented himself as The Black Pope and turned his interest in philosophy and the occult into the Church of Satan in 1966.”

“So it’s just another cult made up by some guy who thinks he’s the Messiah,” says Monica, disappointed that an intelligent man like Gilfoyle would fall for something so crass.

“Oh, no, LaVey wasn’t the Messiah. He was only a very naughty boy,” says Gilfoyle. Monica smiles; she’s dated enough engineers to recognize the Monty Python reference. “Unlike Ron L. Hubbard, or Sun Myung Moon, or Joseph Smith, or Mohammed, Jesus or Moses, and every other prophet going back to the dawn of time, LaVey never pretended it was anything else than the product of his own imagination. Satanism is an amalgam of influences, some entirely made up, others tweaked from history or literature. Its central premise is its opposition to oppression, with the biblical Devil used as a symbol of individualism and the struggle against tyranny. It provides its followers with a set of rituals and beliefs that replace the dogmatic pageantry of so-called mainstream religions.”

“But mainstream religions have a long history—” starts Monica.

“Of what? Oppressing people and pretending theirs is the only truth? You really think it makes any difference if Dinesh prays five times a day, or Jian-Yang lights incense for his ancestors, or you say three Hail Marys with an Act of Contrition on top every time an impure thought comes into your prim little head?” He moves almost imperceptibly closer as he says that and Monica is mesmerized by the passion in his voice. “You can’t all be right, so you must all be wrong. LaVey didn’t pretend to channel the One True God: he believed as I do that there is no God. Humans are nothing more but intelligent animals, capable at the same time of divine greatness and the basest of barbarism. Satanism is a parody of religion which is at the same time a coherent system of belief. Belief in oneself, in guiding principles of morality, in the potential of the divine magic that is within us all.”

“Wow, that’s fascinating!”

Monica blinks. Tearing her eyes away from Gilfoyle, she turns to find Holden standing beside them; with his shorter stature, he’s staring up at them with a look of wonder.

“Oh, um, I just found that really cool.” 

He looks down at the cup of tea in his hand and seems to suddenly remember that he’s supposed to give it to Richard.

“I’ll lend you LaVey’s book sometime,” offers Gilfoyle after he’s gone. He smiles. “Maybe you’ll come and walk the Left-Hand Path with me.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffs Monica, turning away to head back to her desk. “Just remind me never to ask you about Satanism again. Or cryptocurrency.”

Gilfoyle puts his empty bottle of beer in the recycling bin. “Okay. I’ll give you my opinion on medical marijuana next time.”

* * * * *

Monica tries very hard not to think about Gilfoyle that night. She lies in bed with her eyes closed, enjoying the cool air in her climate-controlled apartment, and tries to think about something else. But as soon as she starts to doze off, her mind takes her back to Gilfoyle on his knees in the corridor. She thinks about cryptocurrency and Satanism and how appealing he looked with his hair tied back, looking up at her. She imagines reaching down to stroke his head and pull him closer, feeling his beard against her thighs—apparently, she isn’t wearing a tight pencil skirt in this scenario—and his hands running up the back of her legs. Maybe he gets that passionate look on his face again, not stirred by made-up currencies and religions, but by her presence above him, his brown eyes widening when she crouches down to straddle his legs and kiss him.

She pauses there, her heart beating faster. She shouldn’t want this. A relationship with Gilfoyle would mean worrying about being found out, and once found out, worrying that people will second-guess her professional decisions in light of their relationship. And judge her for being in a relationship with a racist Satanist who takes sadistic pleasure in insulting people. And then, what if the relationship breaks down and she has to deal with him day after day, knowing that everyone knows she was stupid enough to engage in a relationship with him in the first place?

But on the other hand, those are all hypothetical scenarios. She’s in the privacy of her own bed; fantasizing about something doesn’t make it happen. She lets her mind return to the corridor, to Gilfoyle wiping the sweat out of his eyes. She straddles his hips, takes his glasses away, and kisses him deeply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Summer is a-cumen in" is a medieval song which seemed appropriate given Richard's interests. I adapted the lyrics from [the version listed on All The Lyrics](https://www.allthelyrics.com/lyrics/paul_giovanni/sumer_is_acumen_in-lyrics-471631.html) as it was closest to the vaguely lewd version I remember from my youth.
> 
> No insult to anyone's beliefs intended. Gilfoyle's opinions are his own.
> 
> I've tried to keep to American idioms, spellings and punctuation but do feel free to let me know if I've missed something in the endless rewrites, as despite my betas' efforts, none of it comes naturally to my British head! (you can contact me at ariana-paris on Tumblr if you want to do it privately - or just discuss anything to do with SV, really!)


	4. Decision Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilfoyle is invited to be on Bloomberg Technology with Emily Chang. Monica goes along with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Machine Learning, a decision tree uses a tree-like graph or model of decisions and their possible consequences to evaluate the best outcome.

“Gilfoyle, I’m afraid Iqbal Mohammed turned down our offer last night. He got a better offer at Apple.”

Jared is going through the status of their various recruitment initiatives in the management meeting. Dinesh’s eyes widen when he hears the name.

“Iqbal Mohammed?” asks Dinesh. “I don’t think I interviewed him.”

“Yeah, I saw him with Becky and Danny last week,” says Gilfoyle. “I guess you’re not getting another Muslim for your bi-weekly ‘Undermine Western Civilization’ meetings after all, Brownie.”

Monica wrinkles her nose at the comment. Jared frowns and Richard looks mildly concerned. Dinesh just nods gravely.

“Oh yeah, I get very lonely undermining Western civilization on my own,” he says with a straight face. He points at Jared’s notebook as if expecting him to actually write something down. “Definitely need to recruit more Muslims. Maybe throw in some Canadians for Gilfoyle. I’d say Satanists, but there’s like twelve of them in the world so kind of a small pool.”

Gilfoyle nods. “Yeah, and we’re territorial, like cats, so we need to keep away from each other. There should be enough Muslims to go around, though. One in each department. Plus they can’t easily come back into the country so they’re less likely to take vacations to go visit their families.”

“What the—” starts Monica.

“Yeah, that’s a really good point,” says Dinesh. “We can’t just wander off across the border like Canadians. So definitely put more Muslims on your list.”

“We’re not recruiting anyone based on their religion,” says Jared, looking at him uncertainly as if unsure if he’s being serious.

“Oh, like that time you told us to recruit the best engineers who happened to be women?” says Dinesh with mock seriousness. 

“Talking about people wandering across borders,” says Gilfoyle. “Dick, did you hear back from Raul Hernandez?”

Richard nods. “Yes, but he wants to know where we’ll be based if we move offices. He cycles to work so he’ll only accept offers in this area.”

“Shit. He’s really good and we desperately need a Head of IT,” says Gilfoyle, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Can we give him a relocation bonus if we end up miles away from here?”

“We won’t end up miles away,” Monica reassures him. “Jared and I have some office visits lined up over the next few weeks and I’m sure we can find something around here.”

“If you do, I want to see it before you sign anything,” says Gilfoyle. “Richard and Jared picked this place without taking a close look at the wiring and we’ve ended up with Ethernet cables hanging from the fucking ceiling and air-con that doesn’t even work. I want to check the next place out.”

“Sure,” says Monica, raising her hands. “Knock yourself out. We’ll let you know and you can tag along.”

“Talking about next week,” says Jared. “Just a reminder that we’re having a celebration on Friday. I’ve booked a venue. It’s optional, of course, but I think it would be good if we could all be there to lead the festivities.”

“Is there going to be karaoke?” asks Gilfoyle.

“Oh, uh, no. I was thinking just speeches then drinks and snacks followed by dancing.” Jared smiles enthusiastically. “The venue has a nice dancefloor.”

“No karaoke,” says Gilfoyle gravely. “Hmm, I’ll have to think about it.”

“You don’t even like karaoke,” says Dinesh.

“No, but you do. And laughing at the Karaoke King from Karachi massacring Crispian St. Peters is about the only thing that makes these mandatory social gatherings at all bearable.”

“Fuck you, Gilfoyle.”

Gilfoyle grins at Monica. She rolls her eyes and wonders what the hell she sees in him.

* * * * *

“But then Toby puked it all up anyway. So much for his special second birthday party!”

Monica is having lunch with her friend Dawn. They’ve known each other since they started climbing the ranks at Raviga together, spending many a night swapping amusing Peter Gregory stories and tales of their romantic woes. They’re still best friends; they like each other’s Facebook and Instagram posts and occasionally have lunch together. Unfortunately, Dawn married her boyfriend Marc a couple of years ago and has since produced Toby. Toby is very cute but tends to monopolize all Dawn’s conversations; Monica finds it hard to do more than make encouraging noises as his every action is recounted in loving detail. She half wishes they could go back to the days when they only talked about guys and work.

“And what’s up with you?” asks Dawn finally. “Any hot guys in your life?”

Correction: Monica wishes they could go back to the days of only talking about work. She isn’t sure she’s ready to discuss Gilfoyle with anyone.

“I’ve been busy with Pied Piper,” she says elusively. “Our coin is starting to rise and we’ve unfrozen recruitment again. By the way, we’re looking for new offices, so if you know any...”

“I’ve heard Hooli are moving out of their Palo Verde building. Marc’s friend Bill works in the incubator that shares the building and he’s heard they’ll be out by the end of the month. Might be a bit too much office space for you, though. It’s a whole four floors.”

“Yeah, that might be overreaching at this point. I mean, I’m hoping we’ll get there, but we can’t afford that yet.”

“You didn’t actually answer my question about the guys,” says Dawn with a sly smile. “So is there someone?”

“Oh, um.” Monica hesitates and then decides that talking to Dawn might help after all. “Well, there is this guy at work. I think he likes me.”

“A guy at work,” repeats Dawn with a dubious look. She looks at Monica with amusement and sighs dramatically. “Please tell me he isn’t another fucking software engineer.”

Monica shakes her head. “No, he isn’t a software engineer.”

Dawn gives her a pointed look, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Monica rolls her eyes and smiles ruefully.

“Okay, he’s our systems architect.”

“Oh my God, Monica. What is it with you and emotionally stunted tech guys?” Dawn laughs and gestures to draw an imaginary line in the air. “Tech people are on this spectrum, right? At one end, near all the extroverts who become Sales and Marketing, and PR people like me, you have designers and QA engineers, and then a bit further, front-end coders. People who care about how humans are going to use the product, you know? Then after that, you have the full-stack and backend software engineers. They give less of a shit about users but at least their world is still about using language to communicate with the machines and with each other. But then you have Systems, and they’re totally in the Matrix, at the deep end of the spectrum.” 

“Well, they’re not _all_ like that,” protests Monica feebly.

Dawn folds her arms. “Look me in the eye, girl, and tell me this one is different.”

“I’ve seen worse?” says Monica. “I mean, he isn’t Peter.”

“God, Monica, if that’s your criteria, it’s no wonder you fall for such losers. Peter Gregory was definitely in the Mariana Trench off the deep end.” Dawn shakes her head. “But go on, pros and cons of dating this guy?”

They’ve done this before, because Dawn is convinced that Monica has terrible taste in men. Which Monica has to admit is true. She tries to collect her thoughts.

“So… well, there are a lot of cons. Really _a lot_ of cons.” She sighs. “For a start, we work together. Not very closely, but we sit near each other, and you know, there are a lot of meetings. And we have to collaborate on the coin because he’s our cryptocurrency expert and obviously, I deal with the financial and regulatory side.”

“And we all know how office romances turn out,” says Dawn gravely. She met Marc on a dating site, which she feels is a superior means of finding a soulmate.

“Right, yeah. And then—” Monica shakes her head as a long list of cons comes to mind. “He’s a Satanist with tattoos, and a mug that says ‘Drink Coffee, Hail Satan.’ He listens to Heavy Metal, I guess, which I _really_ hate. And rides this weird electric bike. Looks like a cross between a go-kart and a high school science project. And he’s always making comments about terrorists and brown people to our Pakistani colleague. Also, I think he had an open relationship with his ex-girlfriend where they could both screw other people, so maybe he’s into some kinky stuff. Except she was kind of more into the screwing other people than she was into him, so she dumped him a couple months ago, which I guess maybe means he’s still on the rebound right now.”

Dawn stares at her. “And we’re talking about him why, exactly? Is he hot like Kyle?”

Kyle, probably the only one of Monica’s previous tech guy boyfriends that Dawn approved of, was a handsome, clean-looking young man who worked out. By the time she dumped him, she’d started to wonder if he was gay. The sex was good, though, so it was hard to tell.

“Um, no, he’s not at all like Kyle. I mean, he definitely looks like the kind of guy who likes Heavy Metal. You know, long hair, beard... Really thick glasses.”

“All that and he’s a racist as well. Sounds like a keeper,” says Dawn sarcastically. “_Are_ there any pros?”

Monica tries to think how to express what attracts her to Gilfoyle without mentioning the inexplicably hot fantasies. “He’s really clever. But not in a weird way like Peter. Or Richard Hendricks, for that matter. Just in a pragmatic way, I guess? And he’s good at fixing stuff. You remember when Pied Piper ran that feed of the guy who fell off the cliff? They ran that whole session on the servers he set up in the garage! And he fixed the air-conditioning in the office the other day. And he’s funny. I mean, a lot of it is sarcastic and mean, but he’s really witty sometimes. And he’s not bad looking. He has nice brown eyes. You know, behind the glasses.” She remembers Gilfoyle kneeling at her feet in the hallway and she smiles sheepishly. “And he’s actually kind of hot when he’s working on something, or talking about something he’s passionate about. Really intense.”

“And you haven’t dated anyone in like six months so any guy with a dick who might like you looks good?” Dawn shakes her head. “My advice to you is to forget about this loser and date someone normal for once. A guy who doesn’t bring his laptop on dates or spend entire weekends LARPing with his buddies. Remember people like that?”

“Vaguely,” says Monica with a smile, though she thinks Dawn is right. She can already feel a plan forming in her mind.

* * * * *

It takes a couple of days for Monica to put her plan into action, but she feels quite pleased with herself when she does. Gilfoyle continues to be predictably racist and geeky, and with a break in the heatwave, he’s back in his usual black jeans, though he makes a concession to the season and switches from long-sleeved flannel to short-sleeved cotton plaid shirts. One day, she witnesses him having a long and involved argument with Dinesh, Becky and Danny about the right way to use Jira, which ends in him apparently sulking at his desk with his headphones on, refusing to talk to them for several hours. Dawn is right; nothing good will come of dating someone like Gilfoyle. 

On the evening her plan comes to fruition, Monica works a little later than usual, then decides it’s time to get ready. No harm in getting there early. She goes off to the restroom to fix up her hair and makeup by the gloom of the two remaining light bulbs. 

When she comes back into the office to get her purse, most of the other employees have left, except for a handful scattered across the desks, and a group playing a board game in the social area at the back of the office. Gilfoyle is eating a bowl of cereal at his desk and watching a video with his headphones on. Monica glances at his screen with curiosity as she returns to her desk; when she recognizes the dark-clad figure in the video, she stops to take a better look. Gilfoyle removes his headphones but lets the video play.

“They recorded my presentation for Girls Who Code the other day,” he explains. “They sent me the link a couple of days ago. Basically, it’s just me standing in front of that screen talking. And it looks as if it’s been filmed on a potato.”

Monica leans down to take a better look. Her long hair tumbles over her shoulder and brushes his bare forearm; she hears him take a sharp intake of breath, though he doesn’t move. Embarrassed, she straightens up a little and sweeps her hair to the other side, then sits on Becky’s vacant chair so she’s in a better delimited personal space.

The video is indeed just him standing in front of a projector screen going through his presentation. He doesn’t exactly look terrified—certainly not on the scale that Richard routinely exhibits—but he’s blinking more than usual and doesn’t crack a smile once.

“Dinesh is right: it does help to watch a video of yourself,” he says grimly, finishing off his bowl of cereal. “I mean, _he_ likes watching himself because he has the undeserved ego of a man who’s had everything handed to him on a silver platter by a servant. But I guess you were onto something with the Satanic Grizzly Adams.” He sighs and closes the video. “I think I’ve seen enough of that.”

“I hate watching myself on video,” says Monica in sympathy. “My sister made me watch the speech I made at her wedding. Objectively, I was probably fine, but I just thought I looked so weird.”

Gilfoyle turns his chair towards her, his denim-clad knee only an inch from her bare leg. “I didn’t want to say anything,” he says in his usual deadpan delivery, “but you _do_ look kind of weird.”

Monica just rolls her eyes at him. It’s on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he’s going to pull her pigtails next, but assuming he even understood the reference, that would be an acknowledgment of his attraction to her and she doesn’t want to go there. Especially tonight.

“Jared completely freaked out when he saw himself on Bloomberg,” he continues. “He thought his nose looked big so when he was supposed to be on some other show, he got saline injections to make his lips bigger to even things out. He looked like a blowup doll. The PR woman he’d found to help with their media appearances canceled it when she saw him.”

“Poor guy,” laughs Monica, shaking her head. “He was really good on Bloomberg! That thing about manure was brilliant.”

Gilfoyle picks up the fluffy white goat from behind his laptop and brushes some dark lint from the top of it. “They’ve asked me on too,” he says casually. “To talk about the uptick in the coin that we got from Galoo. They want me to record it tomorrow afternoon. Jared has already started worrying.”

“Bloomberg have asked _you_ on?” 

Gilfoyle gives her a sardonic smile. He’s still holding the goat. “What, you think I can’t talk shit to Emily Chang like Jared?”

“Hmm, well. Good luck with that,” she says, trying to wrap her head around the idea of Gilfoyle being interviewed. 

She thinks she should go, but she still has time to kill and she’s curious about one thing. 

“Who’s your friend?” she asks, pointing at the goat.

He chuckles, flashing his gap-toothed smile. “This is Groff. I won him at a tech fair. Actually, no, Dinesh won him. You remember when we were doing all that outreach a couple of years ago, when nobody understood how the fuck Pied Piper worked so we had to go and explain it?”

“Oh yes,” says Monica with feeling, because that particular disaster is seared in her memory.

“Dinesh was always going around the booths ogling the girls, so he’d enter all the competitions, and this was one of the prizes. He gave it to me because of the Satanist goat thing. You know, Baphomet. But this is actually a BSD mascot.” He pauses. “BSD is a UNIX-inspired family of operating systems, kind of like Linux. Except it’s not Linux,” he explains. He hands her the goat. “You can have him if you want. You need more stuff on your desk.”

Monica takes the goat. It’s soft, and warm where Gilfoyle has been holding it. She puts it down on his desk. “Thanks, but I’ll think about decorations when I have my office in the new place, wherever that turns out to be.”

“Oh, you’re getting your own office in the new place?” he asks, putting his goat back behind the laptop.

“Yes,” she says. “The current plan is that Richard, Jared and I will get our own offices. It’s not ideal handling confidential financial information in an open plan bullpen.”

“Big shots,” he says neutrally. “I bet you get paid more than me too.”

Monica decides not to engage in that particular conversation. Because, yes, Richard did make it worth her while to leave a position as a general partner in a VC fund. 

“I can tell you’re at poverty’s door.” She points at the empty Obol in front of him. “Is that why your dinner is a bowl of cereal from the office?” 

“We’re out of food at the house. Turns out the fridge used to order it for us. So I decided I’d get something here, but we only provide breakfast.” He picks up the bowl. “Guess I should go home.”

He goes to put the bowl in the kitchen. Monica takes the opportunity to put her laptop and some miscellaneous items from her purse into her pedestal so she doesn’t have to take them with her. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Gilfoyle packing up his stuff into his messenger bag. The group playing in the social area randomly cheer.

Monica picks up her purse and straightens up to find Gilfoyle standing looking at her. 

“I’m going to grab some real food,” he starts. 

Monica freezes, steeling herself for what she thinks is coming next. He’s going to ask her out and she’s going to have to say no.

“I’d ask you if you want to come along,” he says quietly, “but I’m guessing you already have plans. You look really nice, by the way.”

“Um, thanks.” She’s only put on more makeup and changed her earrings so she’s surprised he noticed. 

He looks her over and doesn’t ask if it’s a date. “Lucky guy. Anyone I know?”

She wonders if he thinks she’s going out with Richard, but can’t see any reason not to tell him the truth.

“Um, kind of. You remember Trey, the Sales candidate we interviewed the other day?”

“The Sales candidate we _rejected_ the other day.” His eyes narrow with amusement. “You’re going on a date with a guy you’ve rejected for a job. Is that even ethical?”

“It was a unanimous decision,” Monica reminds him. “And he posted on LinkedIn that he’s accepted a job at Google. So I congratulated him, and we talked and decided to go out.” She chooses not to say that she’s the one who asked him out.

“Trey was the one with the teeth, right?” asks Gilfoyle. For a moment, she’s afraid he’ll launch into a rehash of his double-act with Dinesh and tell her all the things that are wrong with Trey. But instead, he smiles rather sweetly and says, “He’s a handsome guy. I hope you have a good evening. See you tomorrow, Monica.”

He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and walks off. As she watches him go, she half wishes she was going with him after all. She reminds herself that he’s only a charming nerd when they’re alone together; the rest of the time, he’s a dick. She waits long enough for him to leave the building and then messages Trey that she’s on her way.

* * * * *

“How did the date with Trey go?”

Monica stops discreetly rummaging for tampons in her purse and stares at Dinesh. It’s the next day and he’s come in earlier than usual in advance of yet another coding interview. They’ve only exchanged their usual morning greeting so far, so his question completely throws her.

“Oh sorry,” says Dinesh, reading the expression on her face. “Was that supposed to be a secret? Gilfoyle, um, mentioned it yesterday so we were talking about that and what kind of guy you should date. Not in a controlling ‘we get to decide’ way!” he adds, wide-eyed, when he sees the look on Monica’s face. “In a friendly ‘what would actually make our friend happy’ way.”

Monica tries to wrap her head around the fact that Gilfoyle apparently went home last night and told Dinesh that she was going on a date with Trey.

“And what was your conclusion?” she asks coolly.

Dinesh relaxes again. “Oh, we did a SWOT analysis,” he says proudly. “You know, so we could really drill into the details. And on the whole, Trey seems ideal. I mean, he’s kind of like you: well-groomed, knowledgeable about business, not into tech. Used to work for McKinsey, same as you did; likes romantic music, and eating out in fancy restaurants; can probably tell the difference between $500 champagne and a cheap domestic. That kind of thing.”

Monica is a little disturbed to realize that Dinesh and Gilfoyle spent some time stalking her date on social media. Then again, she did the same before proposing the date in the first place.

“Well, I’m glad he has your blessing,” she says neutrally.

She’s established that she probably has enough tampons stashed in various pockets in her purse to last the day without a drugstore run at lunchtime, so she puts it on the floor and starts work. 

It isn’t long before Gilfoyle comes in. Objectively, he looks the same as usual—wavy hair and beard obscuring half his face, thick glasses pushed slightly askew by his heavy Bluetooth headphones—but Monica feels as though a spotlight has been thrown on him. She doesn’t even know why things feel different. Maybe it’s just because he complimented her last night; in which case she really does need to get a boyfriend. He notices her looking and gives her a polite smile as he drops his messenger bag on his desk. 

“Oh, just in time. Glad you could join us, Gilfoyle,” says Dinesh with mild sarcasm. He checks his phone and grabs the laptop they use for coding tests. “Candidate’s here so I’ll do the intro to the company while you’re getting your shit together.”

Gilfoyle acknowledges that with a grunt and connects up his laptop to its various appendages as Dinesh rushes off.

“Dinesh was telling me about the SWOT analysis,” says Monica casually, leaning back in her chair.

Gilfoyle gives Dinesh’s departing back a sour look. “Was he now.”

He’s about to follow Dinesh when Jared comes over. “Oh, hey, I know you’re busy, but I wanted to talk to you two. Monica, Gilfoyle is being interviewed on Bloomberg this afternoon. I was thinking maybe you could go with him. You know, in case they have any questions about anything.”

“In case I say anything controversial,” says Gilfoyle flatly.

“I’m not going on TV!” says Monica a little too fast. “I mean, I don’t like being on camera.”

“Why, does it make your eyes look even smaller?” asks Gilfoyle.

Monica gives him a sharp look and he looks down at his feet like a little boy who’s been yelled at.

“Well, maybe just go with him?” pleads Jared. “Being on TV is very stressful, Gilfoyle, and you might find you appreciate the moral support.”

Gilfoyle gives him a silent stare that clearly communicates how much moral support he thinks he’ll need. He goes off to join Dinesh and the interview candidate in the conference room.

Monica wants to ask why Richard or Jared—or maybe even better, Dinesh—can’t go with him, but the answer is obvious. Jared knows perfectly well that if any of them ask him to do something, he’ll tell them to chortle on his balls. She isn’t entirely sure she can do any better.

“Maybe he’ll let me come along if I offer him a lift to San Francisco?” she suggests.

* * * * *

Gilfoyle plays it cool all morning despite Jared and Dinesh constantly giving him advice, but then snaps at Richard to fuck off when he starts chiming in too. He’s very quiet when he follows Monica to her car.

He fiddles with the controls on the dashboard as they drive out of Palo Alto. When he starts playing with the radio, changing stations every few minutes, Monica smacks his hand and he blows a raspberry at her. It’s all so dumb that she laughs. He seems more relaxed after that.

They stop at a gas station. Monica leaves Gilfoyle pumping the gas and goes in to buy a box of tampons—just in case she runs out—and visit the restroom. When they drive off, he’s sitting at an angle in the passenger seat so he can stare at her. Super subtle, Casanova, thinks Monica, though she finds she doesn’t mind. She thinks maybe she’s developed a high tolerance for geeks lusting over her after all these years.

“Is Trey coming to the party next week?” he asks nonchalantly, probably because unlike Dinesh, he can’t just straight up ask her how the date went.

“No. He’s going away for the weekend.” 

That’s true—he did mention it when they had their drink together—but she omits to say that she didn’t invite him to the party anyway. It would be weird to take him to a workplace party so soon after he was rejected for a job by the company’s senior management. Also, they haven’t established if they’re going to see each other again yet.

“You going to see him again?”

Great. Now what does she say? She doesn’t want to lie, but if she isn’t enthusiastic about Trey, Gilfoyle might make a move on her and she doesn’t want to have to reject him.

“What did your SWOT analysis say I should do?” she asks.

“It said maybe you should see him again,” he says. His voice is so low, both in timbre and in volume, that she strains to hear him over the roar of the engine. “I guess you have a lot in common.”

“Yeah, I noticed you and your best buddy Dinesh stalked him on social media.”

She expects him to debate the “best buddy,” but he just smiles. “We were curious. He looks okay. I mean, I wouldn’t date him but I can see why you might.”

Monica gives him an amused look. She’s pleased that her plan is working and he seems to have gotten the message that she isn’t available. 

“Especially with the shiny teeth and all the product in his hair,” he adds in a more normal Gilfoyle tone.

* * * * *

Gilfoyle appears to be his usual stoic self when they get to Bloomberg’s studio, but Monica thinks he’s very subdued. He makes no cutting remark when the makeup artist makes him take his glasses off and proceeds to cover the top half of his face in foundation. 

“Is it okay if I brush your hair, Bertram?” she asks. “Gotta look your best for TV.”

“It’s Gilfoyle,” he says, though he doesn’t stop her.

She combs his hair and then, to Monica’s amusement, does the same with his beard. Gilfoyle raises his eyes to Monica, who is leaning against the makeup table holding his glasses, and gives her a long-suffering look. She thinks it’s a real shame he hides his eyes behind the glasses all the time, because they’re really pretty. She wonders if he’s ever tried contacts, then considers the rest of his usual look and thinks he probably doesn’t care what he looks like. He’d also no doubt be very offended if she told him his eyes were pretty.

“You look great,” she says instead when he’s allowed to leave the makeup chair.

He puts his glasses on and glances at himself in the mirror. “I look fucking airbrushed.”

Someone hands him a Bloomberg mug full of something. He makes a face when he tastes it but before he can fire off a scathing remark, a stagehand ushers him out of the dressing room. Monica follows them into the studio, and though Gilfoyle looks outwardly calm, she notices he stops and stares at the lights and the cameras.

“It’ll be fine,” she tells him. 

On impulse, Monica gives his hand a squeeze. His palm is dry and warm, and his fingers curl momentarily around hers.

“Right, we’re ready for you!” says the floor manager. “If you’d like to come this way, Bertram.”

“It’s Gilfoyle,” he grumbles.

* * * * *

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?”

“Oh, so you _are_ talking to me,” he says, following her into the office.

Jared comes over to join them. “How did the interview go?” he asks, though Monica can tell by the way he wrings his hands that he’s already gotten his answer from their entrance.

“Mr. Crypto-Anarchist here decided to use his interview as a platform to express his disdain for the financial system of the entire Western World!” exclaims Monica. “When this goes out, we’ll be blacklisted with every VC and investment bank in town!”

“So what?” says Gilfoyle. “The whole point of having a coin of our own is that we’re effectively printing our own money.”

“Money we can’t use unless we get a bank to exchange it for real money! _Fiat_ money. What the fuck do you think our offices and salaries are paid with?” Monica packs her laptop in its bag. “And what if our coin tanks again? How are we going to get anyone to fund us after that performance?”

“Then we make our own way without them! We’ve done it before, we can do it again.”

“Oh. Well, you know, they might edit that bit out,” says Jared optimistically.

Monica throws up her hands in exasperation. “There’s nothing else to edit _in_, Jared. Emily Chang finished the interview early!”

“She didn’t answer my question!” says Gilfoyle petulantly.

“So you blanked her?” 

Monica realizes that most of the staff are either looking at them or trying to pretend that they’re not looking at them. But she’s too angry and frustrated to pretend everything is fine. She picks up her bag. 

“I’m going home. Maybe they won’t show it at all,” she tells Jared. 

“Fingers crossed,” he agrees, raising both hands. “But just in case, I’ll get Holden to prepare a few variations for a press release, depending how things look if it airs this evening.”

Monica heads out of the office. When she reaches the elevator, she realizes that Gilfoyle has followed her.

“You really think we live in the best of all possible worlds right now?” he challenges her. “That financial institutions work in everyone’s best interest, redistributing wealth and letting it trickle down through society? Well, let me tell you, Candide, this perfect world of financial hegemony leaves millions behind in this country and ruins entire countries elsewhere. Ask the Greeks and Venezuelans how they feel about the international banking system!”

Monica glares at him as they step into the elevator. “The rate of innovation has gone up exponentially since the introduction of modern banking in the late eighteenth century,” she says. “Before that, you could only get funding for research and invention from rich individuals. Now you can get it from thousands of investors: pension funds, shareholders, hedge funds, individuals on modest incomes with just enough money to invest, all using the system to grow their capital while making it available to other projects. This is the system that keeps the money flowing so that bozos like you or Richard with an idea and half an ounce of talent get a shot at inventing the next big thing! Money makes the world go around and the banking system greases its wheels.”

“Greases the palms of the already wealthy, you mean. With an army of middlemen leeching off that money before it reaches the pocket of any innovator.” 

“Oh, I suppose I’m part of the army, am I?” says Monica angrily. “Look, if I hadn’t batted for Richard after he and Big Head first talked to Peter all those years ago, his only choice would have been to accept Gavin Belson’s money and continue working for him. At Raviga and Bream-Hall, I helped dozens of companies get off the ground by giving them the funds and advice they needed. And you know what, I’m actually very proud of that!”

He rolls his eyes and follows her out of the elevator. “I should have known you’d defend the financial system.”

“Damn right I will!” says Monica. “My brother is an investment banker and my sister runs a hedge fund. I know exactly how the system works and it isn’t some evil conspiracy to screw little people!” 

“It doesn’t need to be an evil conspiracy to screw little people. It just needs to be a system that encourages greed and rewards the reckless,” he says, following her to her car. “I’m sure you think your brother and sister are good people, but most of the people involved in that system don’t give a fuck whose money they’re playing with. It’s all just a betting game to them, and if they lose, they’re not the ones who will be out on the street or unable to heat their houses because some fucker with a Merc threw away their pensions and life savings on a stupid hedge bet on a national currency or a package of people’s subprime mortgages!” 

They’re standing beside her car and Monica wonders if he’s planning to follow her home. Despite the serious subject and the valid points he’s making, she finds herself thinking that he’s kind of cute when he’s passionate like this. She wonders if she should invite him home, then remembers she doesn’t want to date him. And that they’re in the middle of an argument.

She beeps her car open. “Okay, I get it. You have a major beef with the financial system. But you didn’t need to air that in an interview where you should have been promoting the company we’ve both bet our livelihoods on. And I am not having this conversation in a fucking parking garage!”

“Yeah, I think we should go to your place,” he says seriously. “You live on your own. It’ll be more private than the place I share with four other guys. We can get some food on the way.”

So he really does want to follow her home. She wonders if he wants to have sex with her and feels a flush of warmth at the thought. “Are you asking me on a _date_, Gilfoyle?”

“No. Dates are a patriarchal Judeo-Christian mating ritual in which a man competes to win lifelong ownership of a woman’s reproductive system through the outdated institution of marriage. I don’t do dates.”

She’s heard that kind of nonsense before, and she knows what it really means. “Oh, okay, so you’re just asking me to fuck you?”

He narrows his eyes in surprise and she realizes with horror that this wasn’t his train of thought after all. But then he looks hopeful. Shit. Now he knows that she knows that he’s attracted to her. And probably thinks she’s mentioning it because she’s attracted to him too.

“Actually, I was hoping we could continue this conversation,” he says with amusement. Asshole. “But yeah, we can fuck if you want to. Your place is still the logical location.”

Monica stares at him open-mouthed for a moment, outraged by his presumptuousness, and annoyed at her own slip up. “Did you miss the bit where I’m dating someone else?”

“One date. It was a weeknight.” He looks her over confidently. “I’m guessing you didn’t fuck him last night.”

“You seriously think I’m going to fuck you?”

“I think you want to,” he says earnestly. “I want to. We should just do it and get it over with.”

“Does—does that seriously ever work?” she asks in disbelief. “Just walk up to a woman and say ‘hey, wanna fuck?’”

“Depends on the woman.” Gilfoyle takes a step closer. “But mostly, yes. I don’t present myself to women who aren’t attracted to me.”

“Well, even if I wasn’t seeing someone else and I actually did want to sleep with an asshole like you, it’s the wrong time of the month.” She fumbles with the handle on the car door. “Enjoy your not-date with your right hand, buster.”

“I don’t mind,” he says mildly. He leans against the car. “I mean, it’s not like a fetish or anything. But if you’re using a tampon, I can go down on you. Then I get off whichever way works for you and we’re good.”

Gilfoyle’s words paint a vivid picture in Monica’s mind and she finds herself staring at him again, short of breath and feeling flushed. He’s already well in her personal space, but he manages to move closer, his breath tickling her face. He starts to lean in and Monica raises her hand to stop him. He doesn’t push, but instead of backing off, he holds her wrist gently with the tips of his fingers and presses his lips to the palm of her hand. His beard feels odd to the touch, silky on the downstroke and rough when she runs her fingers upward on his cheek. His eyes flutter closed; his breath is hot and ragged against her palm. He reaches for her waist but she shakes her head and pulls her hand away from his face.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

“C’mon, Monica,” he pleads, fixing her with his wide dark eyes behind the distorting lenses. “We both want to.”

“No. No!” she says firmly, though she’s annoyed at how breathless her voice is. “I don’t want to. Not that I don’t want—” she vaguely waves her hand at his body. “Just not another office romance. And not with you. There’s too much wrong with this. I’m sorry.”

Gilfoyle steps back and leans against the car, heaving a heavy sigh. “Okay.” 

He doesn’t meet her eye, but also doesn’t move for a moment, his breathing uneven. She wonders if he thinks he’ll have trouble walking, and tries to dispel the mental image of Gilfoyle being that turned on.

“You really think I’ve fucked up?” he asks finally. “With the interview. You think it’ll harm Pied Piper?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

He nods, then suddenly walks off towards his bike thing parked in the EV section. Monica gets into her car and watches him drive off, the ridiculous contraption creaking as it passes her. She resolves to put her phone on silent and have a quiet evening with a bottle of wine and a good movie. She’ll let tomorrow tell her how Gilfoyle’s interview went. 

As she drives off, though, she has a feeling she knows what she’ll be thinking about when she goes to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main inspiration for this chapter is of course the extra scene they filmed of [Gilfoyle’s interview at Bloomberg](https://twitter.com/techatbloomberg/status/993316991770546176).
> 
> Dawn is Dawn Simon, the Head of PR at Raviga whom Richard didn’t speak to before ranting at CJ Cantwell in season 3.
> 
> The “bi-weekly ‘Undermine Western Civilization’” quip is from [Kumail Nanjiani’s tweet thread protesting the Muslim ban in the US](https://franksars.tumblr.com/post/156497984974/kumail-nanjiani-takes-to-twitter-to-respond-to).
> 
> [Groff the BSD goat has his own Twitter feed](https://twitter.com/GroffTheBSDGoat) \- he wouldn’t be in this story without [evilwtch’s post pointing out his existence](https://evilwtch.tumblr.com/post/174085147655) and [this comment on Reddit identifying the origin of the goat](https://www.reddit.com/r/SiliconValleyHBO/comments/8h9abz/gilfoyle_apparently_plays_magic_the_gathering/dyi2ts9/).
> 
> The amazing [mkmetz on Tumblr](https://mkmetz.tumblr.com/) drew a beautiful picture based on this chapter (click for bigger picture - caution: the Tumblr link may contain visual spoilers for future chapters):
> 
> [](https://66.media.tumblr.com/327949cc12910de1b22a4f2c1a2f0d51/9994dc60fdd840cc-4e/s1280x1920/76c97c8f125576fb66551a871a69680a4580f42a.jpg)


	5. Optimal D2F

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pied Pier celebrates the uptick in its coin price following the 51% attack and Gilfoyle's interview.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an actual computing term, even if there is a whole [Medium post on the mathematics involving that measurement](https://medium.com/cantors-paradise/the-math-behind-that-dick-joke-in-hbos-silicon-valley-3becdebe9118).

As usual, Monica comes in before Gilfoyle the next day. She has avoided watching the interview itself, but she’s already seen a dozen links and messages about it in the work Slack channels. As she watches her colleagues arrive, she can tell the interview has caused some excitement. Dinesh and Becky engage in a long conversation and do something to the Mac Mini at the back of the office that is connected to all the TV screens. When he comes in a short while later, Danny joins them and the three of them laugh together at whatever they’re doing.

“You look as if you’re up to something,” says Monica, coming to join them.

“Did you see Gilfoyle’s interview last night?” asks Becky.

“He’s gone viral,” says Danny. “I got like ten messages from friends and family asking me if I know the guy.”

Dinesh pulls out his phone. “And the press and blogs are starting to pick it up too. I like this one: ‘Pied Piper Crypto Geek Destroys Fat Cats On Bloomberg.’ I am so calling him ‘Crypto Geek’ from now on!”

“I got ‘Bloomberg’s Chang Schools Pied Piper Anarchist,’” says Becky. “Also ‘Pied Piper Stands Up For The Little Guy’ and ‘Crazy Pied Piper Nerd Advocates Socialism.’ Guess some people liked it and others not so much.”

The engineers seem amused by the different tones between the headlines, but Monica can see a bigger picture. “They all mention Pied Piper. I guess there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” she says thoughtfully.

Dinesh checks his phone. “Oh, hey, look sharp, everyone. Showtime!”

He and Becky return to their desks, leaving Danny with the Mac Mini. The TV screens are only showing the twirling rainbow colors of a MacOS screensaver, but Monica has a feeling they have something planned. Intrigued, she follows them and sits at her own desk. Gilfoyle arrives at his usual time and sits at his workstation with a perfunctory greeting to everyone around him. Monica thinks he looks as if he’s steeling himself for whatever they have planned; but maybe she’s giving him too much credit for prescience.

“Good morning, Bertram,” says Becky loudly once he’s settled.

“Hey, don’t call him Bertram,” says Dinesh in a similarly stentorian tone. “And you know why? Because—”

At this point, all the TV screens switch from the screensaver to a subtitled extract from Gilfoyle’s Bloomberg interview.

“...It’s Gilfoyle,” says the airbrushed Gilfoyle on the TVs. The frame freezes with the subtitles.

“Ah fuck,” says the real Gilfoyle as the engineers laugh and cheer. He regains his composure almost immediately and looks around at his colleagues, eyes narrowed and face expressionless. “Okay. I see how it is.”

“That can be your new catchphrase,” says Dinesh. “It’s more meme-friendly than ‘chortle on my balls.’”

Gilfoyle observes him impassively. “Well, at least I didn’t get myself a douchey hairstyle and talk about toilets. Or horseshit.”

“No, but ‘Passage across the river Styx of Venture Capital?’” laughs Becky. “Nobody comes up with that shit on the spot. Did you prepare that in advance?”

“Ask Monica, she was there to make sure I didn’t say anything controversial.” Gilfoyle glances at Monica for the first time.

“You definitely prepared it in advance,” she says. “Asshole.”

She catches his eye and remembers the feel of his beard under her fingers. He lowers his eyes and pokes at his illuminated keyboard.

Eventually, the rest of the staff return to their work and Dinesh goes off to get a drink. Gilfoyle looks at his phone, which seems to be displaying a new notification every few seconds. He doesn’t look happy about them. On his way back from the kitchen, Dinesh peers over Gilfoyle’s shoulder at the list displayed on his lock screen.

“Wow, you’re popular today. Look at all those people texting you. Is everyone who has ever talked to you getting in touch?” he asks. He looks more closely at the list and frowns. “Who’s Brenda Gilfoyle?”

Gilfoyle’s facial expression doesn’t change, but he breathes in deeply. He turns the phone onto its face. Monica knows who Brenda Gilfoyle is because she’s listed as his next of kin on Gilfoyle’s personnel file—which Monica has read for entirely professional reasons, of course. She hopes Dinesh isn’t going to be embarrassingly douchey when he works it out.

“Oh,” says Dinesh slowly. “Your mom. The one you hate?”

Gilfoyle folds his arms and looks up at Dinesh. “As opposed to one of my other mothers?” 

“I’d love to meet her some day,” says Dinesh with a grin. “I bet she’s a lovely little old lady who adores you.”

“You would be wrong,” says Gilfoyle. “But she’s one of a growing group of people ranging from relatives to ex-girlfriends who have suddenly remembered my existence just because I’ve appeared in a mildly controversial YouTube video.”

Priyanka looks over her monitor. “Hey, Gilfoyle, talking about your interview. How come you’re not a millionaire if you’ve been mining coins since 2009?”

“I spent it all on drugs,” says Gilfoyle flatly.

“Yes, well, maybe we can avoid mentioning _that_ in any follow-up interview,” says Jared, coming to join them. “Dinesh, Monica, Gilfoyle, maybe we could have a quick Senior Management meeting?”

* * * * *

The conference room is occupied by an interview—it sometimes feels as if they do nothing else but try to recruit people these days—so they all squeeze into Richard’s office.

“I’m sure you all saw Gilfoyle’s brief interview on Bloomberg last night,” says Jared. “We might have some issues with what was said—”

Gilfoyle leans back in his chair, arms crossed in a confrontational stance. Jared gives him a nervous look.

“—but a quick glance at the headlines on various blogs and news sites this morning shows a mixed reception. Last night’s episode of Bloomberg Technology has been viewed by 3,000 viewers, which is pretty normal, but a YouTube video of the segment that they posted on their social media outlets is up to 50,000. It’s also been extensively shared on cryptocurrency websites and forums.”

“In other words, Gilfoyle’s interview has gone viral,” says Dinesh with what Monica can only describe as pride.

Jared tilts his head. “Well, we’re not quite talking Gangnam Style levels of viral, but compared to the stats for our previous interviews—yes.”

“So what does that mean for us?” asks Richard. “Are we going to be blacklisted by VCs?”

He looks at Monica, who gives a noncommittal shrug before answering. “It’s quite probable that we would struggle to find investment money if we needed it right now,” she says. “But that’s been true anyway since you walked away from the Series B Laurie offered you. And you’ve been here before; when Hooli sued you, when you revealed you were using a clickfarm, when Gavin abandoned your partnership to go find himself. Believe me, if we carry on growing at the rate we’ve seen overnight, they’ll all want a piece of the action. I’ve already had a message from Ed Chen congratulating us on our coin price this morning. And anyway, the whole point of having a coin of our own is that we’re effectively printing our own money.”

Gilfoyle gives her a dark look. “Funny how you changed your mind about that after seeing our coin is up.”

Monica glares at him and looks away; she thinks he should be pleased that she’s quoting what he said the previous night.

Jared is checking his phone. “Yes, it is indeed. We’ve just broken the $3 mark,” he says with enthusiasm. “That’s a 20% increase in less than 24 hours. I’m wondering whether I should retweet the cutdown Bloomberg Tech segment with a link to our site. On the one hand, it might drive more traffic to us and maybe garner more users, and interest from potential development partners. But on the other, I’m not sure if we want to be publicly endorsing Gilfoyle’s, uh, strong views on financial institutions.”

“Not retweeting it makes Pied Piper look like chickens,” says Gilfoyle. “We’re supposed to be the decentralized network that replaces the corporate-owned Internet. We chose to have an ICO instead of selling out our users to Bream-_Hall_.” He doesn’t look at Monica. “Now is a good time to advertise that we are a true alternative to the status quo. The Davids battling the Goliath of established financial mores which stifle true freedom and innovation. Which is the whole fucking point I was making last night, in case you missed it.”

Richard shuffles some papers on his desk and glances at Gilfoyle. “Hmm, well, when I watched it, I thought the main point you were making was that you don’t like being called Bertram.”

“Why _don’t_ you like being called Bertram anyway?” asks Dinesh. “Seems an okay name to me.”

Jared nods in agreement. “It has a quaint, old-fashioned feel to it. Like a hero from a romance novel by Barbara Cartland. Or maybe Georgette Heyer.”

Gilfoyle turns to Dinesh and then to Jared. “You’re a Pakistani Muslim with a Hindu name, and you’re inexplicably still using a name Gavin Belson gave you by accident. You leave me the fuck alone if I don’t want to use my first name. You wouldn’t call me by my dead name if I was trans.”

“No, of course not, and we respect your decision,” says Jared placatingly.

“I don’t know if we should retweet Gilfoyle’s interview,” says Richard. “I get the point about standing up for the little guy, but this sounds like a rant and, well, I don’t know if we want _Gilfoyle_ to be the face of Pied Piper. Maybe we should do some follow-up interviews.”

“But you have to leave for that conference this afternoon,” says Jared thoughtfully. “I suppose I could put out a press release, and then Monica and I could do some interviews to clarify the company’s official position. If that’s alright with you, Monica?”

“Oh I’m not going on—” starts Monica, but Gilfoyle interrupts her.

“Yeah, because a pair of corporate goons following up won’t look at all as if you’re doing damage limitation,” he sneers, and though he barely raises his voice, Monica is surprised to realize this is the first time she’s witnessed Gilfoyle being genuinely angry. “I’m sorry I’m not the fucking company monkey you all want me to be. If I don’t fill in Jira tickets right or organize PDRs on time or push to a fucking Git branch every time I change a comma in my code. That’s all shit I can work on.”

He looks around the room. “But I’m not going to apologize for my beliefs and I believe that the system we currently live in is unsustainable and harmful. Why should innovators and creators have to go with a begging bowl to some VC for every penny they need to make things happen? How many times did we have to watch Richard humiliate himself and get shit all over him as Gavin Belson, Russ Hanneman and a bunch of VCs, present company included, fucked him over in every way possible, including firing him from his own fucking company to play nice with spooked investors? I am not going to apologize for what I said to Chang, and Pied Piper should fucking own it and show that it is the company we said we wanted to build!”

He stands up and heads for the door. “Now you business types can do whatever the fuck you want. Spin it, bin it or fucking grow a pair!”

“Yes, well, it’s more of a business strategy concern at this point so I suppose we can decide how to follow up on the interview,” says Jared amiably, though Gilfoyle is already gone.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dinesh mumbles something indistinct about work and also leaves Richard’s office. He walks over to Gilfoyle’s desk and the two of them head out of the office.

“Well. Someone’s in a bad mood!” says Richard, crossing his arms irritably.

“I guess he has strong feelings about cryptocurrency,” says Monica. She thinks being turned down by a woman he tried to kiss probably didn’t help his mood either.

Jared nods thoughtfully. “Yes. Gilfoyle is a man of intense emotion. We all remember how utterly devastated he was when our initial coin offering was unsuccessful two months ago.”

Monica mainly remembers him rarely coming into the office and then being a total dick whenever he did bother to show up. ‘Utterly devastated’ isn’t really how she would have described him.

Richard looks similarly uncertain. “Hmm, well, if by devastated, you mean playing games all day and night. And being a douche to me and Dinesh about our beards. Which was pretty rich coming from him!”

“Maybe he didn’t like the competition,” says Monica with amusement.

“I realize this oversteps the bounds of professional involvement, but I must admit I’ve also been wondering if something else is bothering him,” says Jared. “Some personal emotional upheaval perhaps. There’s a kind of—sadness about him these days. Did he mention anything to you, Monica? You’ve been working quite closely and you spent the night together a couple of weeks ago.”

Monica stares at him in alarm. “The night—oh, right. When we discovered the 51% attack,” she says with relief. “No. Well, he said something about breaking up with his girlfriend. So maybe it’s that.”

“He broke up with Tara?” asks Richard with surprise. “Actually, yes, that does explain a few things. He’s been, I guess, unusually vitriolic about people. Well, I mean he doesn’t like people anyway.”

Jared looks relieved. “That must be it. The breakdown of a romantic relationship is always a period of turmoil. But most people recover, unscathed but a little wiser. So hopefully Gilfoyle will be back to his usual finely-crafted insults in no time.”

“I can’t wait,” says Monica sarcastically, both to put them off the scent in case the bit about spending the night together gave them any ideas, and because she seriously doesn’t know what Jared is worried about.

“You know what,” says Richard with a sigh. “I think he’s right. You should retweet the interview and put out a press release that supports it. Might as well go all out on the counterculture thing. I do want us to be the alternative to the traditional Internet. And, well, we might as well advertise that we’re championing an alternative to venture funding too. God knows we’ve been screwed over enough times by our funders. Err, no offense, Monica.”

“None taken. You got a rough ride from Raviga and, well, Bream-Hall.” Monica spreads her hands. “I gotta admit, I was skeptical about the success of our coin in the beginning. But in the end, you’ve all proved me wrong. I’m happy to be wrong on this. Fuck it, let’s go all out on supporting the Crypto Geek!”

As she says that, she sees Dinesh and Gilfoyle come back into the office with cups from the local coffee shop. Dinesh is laughing and Gilfoyle looks much the same as always; he glances at Monica and then immediately looks away again.

“One thing we need to bear in mind,” says Jared, “is that if we get more enquiries from users and developers, Holden and I might struggle to reply to the messages in addition to the rest of our work. Perhaps you could help out, Monica?”

“Or we could hire someone on a temporary basis to answer all the messages,” says Monica, who hasn’t become a CFO just to end up answering fucking tweets.

Richard checks his phone. “$3.27. We’re still going up.”

“Go Gilfoyle,” murmurs Monica.

* * * * *

The volume of messages does prove unwieldy and Jared hires a marketing contractor to come in the next day. She’s a pretty girl with blonde hair and the sort of chirpy personality well suited to answering social media messages. Most importantly, she has relevant experience at two different startups and she’s available to start immediately and only work for a few weeks. Jared shows her around the office and introduces her to Monica at her desk. Looking around, the girl’s face lights up with a bright smile when she seems to recognize someone.

“Oh, hi, Dinesh!”

Dinesh looks up from his desk with a polite smile, but it fades when he sees her. “Uh, hi.”

“We met at TechCrunch Disrupt,” she explains, even though it’s obvious Dinesh recognizes her. “You remember, the year you won.” 

“Yes, I do,” he says with a nervous smile. “Charlotte, right?”

She pouts playfully. “You never called.”

“No, I, ah, well, I was busy and, you know—”

Behind him, Gilfoyle swivels around slowly on his chair with an evil smile. Monica can almost imagine him stroking a white cat, Blofeld-style. A “sadness about him,” my ass, she thinks with amusement.

“Hello, Charlotte. Good to see you again.”

Charlotte frowns a little. “Um, have we met? Oh, you’re the guy on the viral video.”

“Yes. And I’m also the guy who wrote the code Dinesh saw on your laptop that night,” explains Gilfoyle.

“Oh right. You were the nerdy one with glasses! Sorry, I remembered you as being thinner.” She gives Dinesh another flirtatious smile. “I gotta go now, but see you later!”

Jared escorts her to a desk that’s been placed next to his. Dinesh grins at Gilfoyle.

“She remembers you as being thinner,” he says gleefully.

Gilfoyle doesn’t react. “Let me know if she invites you on a date again. I’m sure I’ve got a good Java class I can give you. You know, if you need some stimulation.”

Dinesh just gives him a sour look and Monica wonders what the hell all that was about. Gilfoyle’s grin fades when he catches Monica’s eye and he gets back to work.

* * * * *

When Monica goes home later that night, she finally watches Gilfoyle’s interview in full. He doesn’t look as nervous as she thought he was on the day. She finds that she’s distracted by a pale hair in his mustache. A grey hair? A trick of the light? She rubs her eyes and wonders how she’s gone so quickly from never dating a guy with a beard to apparently being obsessed with Gilfoyle’s. And how she’s known Gilfoyle for literally years and is now suddenly having hot fantasies about him, just because he said he liked her.

She puts her laptop down on the bed and gets ready for sleep, throwing her dirty clothes by the door. She watches the video a second time, lying back in her bed. When it ends, YouTube queues up an old feature from Buzzfeed about Pied Piper’s TechCrunch win and she lets it play. On it, a Richard who looks years younger is stuttering his way through his presentation. In the next shot, the team are embracing, Gilfoyle throwing his long arms around Dinesh and Erlich. The feature cuts to the Pied Piper team receiving their check on stage: Jared standing behind the giant check, looking shell-shocked; Erlich just visible behind Richard; Dinesh and Gilfoyle standing on the right of the screen. Gilfoyle inexplicably slaps Dinesh’s thigh, maybe to get his attention. Dinesh laughs and rubs his leg. She can’t imagine Gilfoyle doing any of that now.

To her surprise, the video cuts to Dinesh and Gilfoyle at the after party. Charlotte is right: Gilfoyle used to be thinner. He is grinning widely and his cheeks look suspiciously rosy; Monica remembers there had been plenty of drugs and alcohol at that party. 

“As employees of Pied Piper, you must be very excited by this win,” says the interviewer.

“Yeah, I feel like I’ve died and gone to hell,” Gilfoyle shouts over the chatter of the party.

“He’s a Satanist, so that’s a good thing,” says Dinesh with the tone of the straight man in a double-act.

Monica stops the video and stares at Gilfoyle. It’s weird to think she knew him when he looked like that; slim and wide-eyed, with a sparse, short beard. In fact, she thinks she can see herself in the crowd behind him, back in the days when she represented Peter Gregory’s Raviga. She feels the familiar weight of loss when she thinks of Peter.

She lies back in her bed, and for the first time, imagines having Gilfoyle here with her. The thought of Gilfoyle, with his unkempt facial hair, lumberjack shirts and Satanist tattoos, coming into her tasteful pastel-toned bedroom makes her smile. This whole thing is so crazy. She lets the video play again; the rest is all Erlich bragging and Richard stuttering, and then YouTube moves on to Gavin Belson saying billionaires are treated worse than the Jews in Nazi Germany. Next in line is Pied Piper’s old Tables ad, so Monica clicks back one last time to the grinning Gilfoyle. She wonders why he seems so guarded nowadays. Maybe Jared is right about the sadness. Or maybe he just grew older like the rest of them.

* * * * *

The long-awaited official celebration of Pied Piper’s success happens the following Friday at a local venue. With the new staff and the addition of their development partners, they have sufficient numbers to have exclusive use of the venue, and Monica arranges a generous tab at the bar. 

“And so, a big toast to our Decapipers!” says Richard when he gives his speech. He has apparently decided to keep going with the numeral prefixes. “Especially the two who signed up just this last week. Thanks to you all, our coin is up to $6 and rising.” He points to the portable screen Jared has provided.

“Oh yeah!” shouts Holden enthusiastically. “We’re on fire, baby, and Richard made it happen!”

Monica rolls her eyes. Jared gives Richard a pointed look and he continues, “Ah well, actually, I guess I should say we owe this at least in part to, uh, Gilfoyle’s surprisingly successful interview with Bloomberg.”

Everyone turns to look at a point near Monica and she realizes that Gilfoyle is standing just behind her, arms folded with a bottle of beer in the crook of his left arm. It isn’t something she’s particularly noticed before, but she now realizes he’s been doing this at Pied Piper gatherings practically since she joined the company. She wonders if he’s been positioning himself so he can stare at her. She also wonders where Dinesh is, as he’s usually standing next to him.

Gilfoyle nods coldly when people look at him and Richard concludes his speech with an almost rousing call to arms to increase the number of their development partners, and the users for those partners. Almost, but not quite rousing; Monica sees Colin from Galoo exchange an amused look with Linda from Plucky. When Monica looks around again, Gilfoyle has wandered off, and she doesn’t know whether to be pleased about that or not; they haven’t spoken privately since the night of the interview.

The evening is a plus one event and Monica can’t help being a little curious about the dates, spouses and—in a couple of cases, apparently platonic friends—that people have brought with them. Jared is here with his new girlfriend Chloe; Becky has also brought a date, but Danny hasn’t; Meera is there with her husband: they’re at the bar with Priyanka, who appears to have come alone.

“So, no plus one either,” says Richard, coming to join Monica a little later. He has a glass of champagne in his hand and his florid face makes her think it isn’t his first. “I thought you were seeing that guy we interviewed a couple weeks ago. The one with the hair and teeth.”

Monica rolls her eyes. “Let me guess. Gilfoyle told you.”

“Yeah, kind of. I happened to notice the SWOT board he and Dinesh put together.” He gives her a shy smile. “I wish they would both put as much effort into our actual work, you know?” 

Monica smiles politely even though as far as she’s heard in the office, Dinesh and Gilfoyle are generally considered good workers. She and Trey still haven’t progressed beyond a vague promise to see each other again some time, but Monica doesn’t need to tell Richard that. She just needs him to communicate to Gilfoyle that she’s seeing someone.

“Trey is away for the weekend, so it’s just me,” she says. “On my own.”

“On your own. Like me. And Priyanka. And Gilfoyle,” says Richard. “Oh, hey, speak of the devil. Or, haha, the Satan. Satan’s little helper. Hey, ever notice that Satan is an anagram of Santa?”

Monica glances over her shoulder to find Gilfoyle standing nearby, looking unamused. Richard looks around. 

“Wait. Where’s Dinesh? Isn’t Dinesh usually with you?”

Gilfoyle points toward the bar. “He’s over there seeing if he can romance Charlotte without the use of my code.”

“Your code. What _is_ that all about?” asks Monica.

Gilfoyle opens his mouth but then closes it again. “Oh crap.”

Turning back toward the bar, Monica sees Dinesh heading in their direction. Charlotte follows along.

“Wow, it’s Sgt. Piper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” says Dinesh with a big grin.

“Gee, thanks,” says Monica.

Dinesh gives her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Monica. And obviously, I know Gilfoyle actually has a girlfriend. Even if we never see her these days.”

“Oh hey, yeah,” says Richard, and even before he manages to formulate a coherent sentence, Monica has an awful feeling she knows what it will be. “Yeah. I’m sorry about Tara!”

“What about Tara?” asks Dinesh with bright-eyed curiosity.

“Oh.” Richard’s large blue eyes widen as he realizes his blunder. “Well. I—I can’t say.”

Gilfoyle rolls his eyes. “Tara dumped me. Though I can’t imagine where Richard got that information.” He gives Monica a sour look.

“Tara dumped you?” says Dinesh with delight. “After all the fucking around with us, and her fucking around with other guys, and then she actually dumped you?”

“That sucks, man.” 

Richard gives Gilfoyle what is probably meant to be a manly pat on the shoulder, a moment that is as painful and awkward for Monica to watch as it appears to be for both men to experience.

“But you know,” Richard carries on. “Plenty more fish in the sea. And also you’ll come out of this emotional crisis unscathed but a little wiser.”

“I don’t know any of you all that well,” says Charlotte with a giggle. “But he does _not_ look like a guy who gets emotional.”

Gilfoyle rewards her with a sinister smile. Dinesh just grins wickedly.

“Oh yeah?” he says. “You know, Gilfoyle once _hit_ me and flushed my phone down the toilet! So how’s that for emotional?” 

“Gilfoyle _hit_ you?” exclaims Monica, alarmed to hear that their rivalry had once come to violence. 

“Yeah,” says Dinesh, pleased by her reaction. “We’d had a bad merge so all our data ended up on each other’s phones, and he totally freaked out about it!”

Gilfoyle swigs his beer and manages to project the air of someone who has never freaked out about anything in his entire life.

“I seem to remember you slapped Jared and destroyed my phone with a rock,” he says, “so I guess everyone was feeling a little emotional.”

Dinesh observes him with deliberate thoughtfulness. “Of course, the question is, what was on the phone that Gilfoyle wanted so desperately to hide from me?”

Charlotte looks Gilfoyle over with amusement. “I’d say dick pics but guys generally don’t mind sharing those.”

“Maybe pictures of his childhood Teddy bear,” suggests Monica. She can’t imagine Gilfoyle ever being a child.

“Or—Or My Little Pony fanfic,” says Richard with a goofy grin.

Gilfoyle shrugs. “You’ll just never know. I told you, Dinesh—”

“No. No!” says Dinesh with alarm, pointing at Gilfoyle. “I won that one! That was a win.” 

Gilfoyle doesn’t argue the point. Instead he indicates Charlotte. “Well, before you get tired of all the winning, why don’t you get Charlotte another drink?”

Dinesh looks at Charlotte as if he’s only just noticed she’s still there. She gives him a bright smile and raises her empty glass.

“I’m on board with that suggestion!” she says. She puts her arm through his and steers him toward the bar.

“That was nice of you, Gilfoyle,” says Richard with surprise.

“Not really. I’m curious to see how things will go. I’ve no idea why she’s still interested after what happened last time,” says Gilfoyle sinisterly. “You’d think she’d be offended at being upstaged by a piece of code.”

“Oh, well, I suppose Dinesh isn’t _that_—” starts Richard. “Oh wait. She was the girl with the code. Jesus. Yes, I remember that.”

“What’s this thing about the code?” asks Monica, just in case someone decides to tell her this time. 

Before either man can answer, Richard stares at the entrance to the bar. “Oh, Christ, what is he doing here?”

“Russ Hanneman?” says Monica in disbelief. “You invited _Russ Hanneman_?”

“Err, no. I think he invited himself, actually.”

“Richard!” Russ waves at Richard and makes a beeline for him, leaving behind the attractive but vacuous-looking woman he came with. “Hey, Richard!”

“Maybe if we go over there, he won’t notice us,” Gilfoyle says to Monica, indicating a dark corner beside the bar.

* * * * *

Monica lets Gilfoyle get her a drink. Looking at the dancefloor, she can see Dinesh and Charlotte engaged in animated conversation on one of the sofas under the balcony that circles the upper half of the venue. Their mutual delight in each other’s company makes her smile.

“Why are you always such a dick to Dinesh?” she asks, taking the glass of wine he’s handing her. “Is it because he’s Pakistani?”

“No, of course not,” he says with the same expression he had when she asked if he worshipped the Devil. “I’m a dick to him because if I’m not, he’ll be a dick to me. Ask anyone in the office about the two hundred insults he threw at me that time Danny told him my code was worse than his.”

“Maybe he’s just intimidated by your superior skills,” says Monica teasingly.

“Yeah, right. He went to fucking Oxford. And Yale. He even co-authored two fucking books on Java and Scala! I should know, he’s basically boobytrapped our place with them. There are three copies of each one just in the bathroom.” Gilfoyle shakes his head. “He’s just a spoiled princess who wants everyone to tell him how great he is without putting in any effort. He puts people down to big himself up instead of actually doing the work.”

“I guess writing those books and graduating from Oxford and Yale took some effort. But are his books any good? I promise I won’t tell if you think they are,” she adds in a conspiratorial tone.

“Right.” He leans in a little closer. “Like you didn’t tell Richard that Tara dumped me.”

“And you didn’t tell Dinesh—and indirectly, Richard—that I was going on a date with Trey.”

He smiles, conceding the point. Because of her high heels, he’s only slightly taller than her, and Monica appreciates being able to look him in the eye.

“His books are okay,” he admits. “But they’re all proper Computer Science bullshit about Functional Programming and the theory behind obscure crap like Monads and Endofunctors. It’s all mental masturbation for mathy ubergeeks. Nothing to do with the real world of actually getting shit done.”

Monica tilts her head and smiles at him. “Oh, I see. So the truth is, _you’re_ intimidated by _him_.”

“The fuck I am,” says Gilfoyle. “I didn’t go to a bunch of fancy universities to study theoretical crap. I studied real, practical Electrical Engineering and then I did Computational Science and Engineering, and I’m still a better coder.” 

He jerks his head towards Dinesh and Charlotte, who are now making out by the dancefloor. Monica averts her eyes because watching co-workers engage in PDA is always weird. 

“Last time he went on a date with her,” says Gilfoyle, “he got a hard-on looking at the Java code I wrote on her laptop. That’s how good my code is!”

“Oh my God!” Monica spreads her hands in amazement. “Just leaving aside how weird it is that he actually got an erection from looking at _code_, why the fuck would he tell _you_ about it? I mean, is that what you do all day at Erlich’s place: eat, write code, and talk about your dicks?”

“Basically. With the occasional break to sleep, shit and jerk off,” he says with a grin. When Monica rolls her eyes, Gilfoyle chuckles. “What? My girlfriend was in Boston! And don’t pretend women don’t do it too.”

Monica decides not to take that bait, especially given who she’s been thinking about lately. “We just don’t brag about it endlessly. Jesus, your place must be like a frat house for nerds!”

Gilfoyle stares at her a moment, and then his expression turns more serious. “You should have taken me up on my offer last week. I think we’d have had a good time.”

She wonders about that. Stereotypically, tech guys aren’t renowned for their prowess. Then again, she’s had enough personal experience to know there’s a wide variety of possibilities, ranging from the borderline incel who thinks women owe him sex because he’s a great programmer, to the earnest woke Liberal who studied female anatomy as a matter of principle. 

“Maybe,” she says. “But I’m sorry, it isn’t worth the problems. I once dated a guy I worked with, then when we broke up, I worked with the guy I had dated. It was—not great. Having to work with him after we’d had this whole passionate thing. Knowing that everyone knew we’d been together and was walking on eggshells around us. Kind of like Becky and Danny, you know.” 

He makes a low growling noise of frustration. “I don’t walk on eggshells around anyone. And this isn’t the same. I’m not interested in _dating_ you.”

“Yeah, you said.” 

She stares into his narrowed dark eyes and then lets her gaze drift down to his thick lips on the midst of his beard. She remembers their weird encounter in the parking garage and the feeling of his beard under her fingers—

“Hey, Creepy Glasses! Raviga Woman! Yo!”

Saved by the asshole, thinks Monica with mixed relief. Hanneman is striding toward them with the confidence of a man who won the lottery once and now imagines he has the Midas touch. 

“Oh wow.” He points at them both in turn with a big grin on his orange face. “Are you guys fucking or what?”

“What,” says Gilfoyle, reluctantly moving away from Monica.

“Well, you totally should,” says Hanneman loudly; luckily nobody from Pied Piper is within earshot. He grins at Gilfoyle. “Fuck knows why, but she’s totally juicing her panties for you, dude.”

Monica wrinkles her nose but Gilfoyle’s expression darkens and he takes a step closer to Hanneman. He’s taller and larger, and though Hanneman stands his ground, Monica detects a flash of nervousness on his over-groomed features.

“How about you get the fuck out of here before I send you back to your plastic surgeon?” growls Gilfoyle.

Hanneman glances at Monica, then back at Gilfoyle. “That serious, huh?” he says with a nervous laugh. Then his expression suddenly softens. “Used to feel like that about my first wife. Would have done anything for her, back in the days when it was just the two of us and my Amiga, living in our one room in Cincinnati.” He turns to look at his statuesque date, now surrounded by some of the braver Pied Piper developers. “You hold on to that feeling, son. It never comes back again, no matter how often you try.”

Then suddenly, Hanneman flashes his bright white teeth and rushes to intercept an acquittance at the bar.

“This party’s boring.” Gilfoyle very pointedly does not look at Monica. “I’m going to get high.”

* * * * *

“One, two, three, drink!”

Monica isn’t sure how she ended up doing tequila shots with Danny and Sanjeev, the new QA guy. She holds her own for the first couple, but is starting to feel light-headed by the end of the third round. She bows out and leaves the men to it, heading for the Ladies.

When she comes back, they’re done with the shots and the group she was in has dispersed. Gaggles of tech people interspersed with the occasional couple line the sofas around the dancefloor. Becky is with a group of engineers—loud laughter periodically rises from their area. Richard seems to be in deep conversation with Priyanka, though as he’s still looking very red in the face, Monica wonders how coherent that conversation is. A few people—mainly women—are dancing energetically to the heavy beat. Women, plus Dinesh and Jared, who are strutting their stuff with their respective lady friends. They’re neither of them John Travolta in his youth, but they seem to have a passing understanding of how to move to the beat. 

Monica thinks about the whole “Jared fucks” thing that Hanneman added to the Pied Piper folklore. She wonders idly if there is any correlation between a man’s aptitude for dance and his talent in bed. And if there is, whether she can extrapolate any data about Dinesh based on what she knows about Jared. Her befuddled mind considers this briefly until she looks up and realizes that Gilfoyle is standing on the deep balcony overlooking the dancefloor, watching her.

He looks pretty cool, she thinks, all dressed in dark clothes, his face partially concealed by his long hair and beard. As she watches, he pulls something from a little bag and puts it in his mouth; getting high as intended. She remembers all her fantasies, and his offer in the parking garage, and feels a pleasant warmth when she meets his gaze. She wonders if he’s any good at dancing or, more importantly, at sex. 

Monica has to laugh at herself, considering sex with a Satanist. Sister Bernadette must be spinning in her grave. Good. Monica hopes the bitch is burning in hell.

“Partying on your own, Gilfoyle?” she shouts over the music when she comes to join him upstairs. They’re the only people up here.

He tells her what it is, but she can’t hear. “You want some?”

He has to practically press his lips to her ear to speak to her. His breath smells of beer and she catches a scent she remembers from the hot day in the office; the temperature is high in the club and he’s probably sweating in his long-sleeved top. It should maybe gross her out, but it doesn’t; she thinks it’s a pleasantly manly smell. 

He licks the tip of his ringed index finger and dips it in the little bag, extracting a single tiny pill. She thinks she should say no. But she’s feeling relaxed and they’re both adults, so fuck it.

“Okay.” 

The small part of her that’s still sober screams that it is a bad idea to get high with a guy who wants to get into her pants—especially a guy who she strongly suspects is already very high himself. But she’s sufficiently intoxicated to ignore that and let Gilfoyle place his finger on her extended tongue. It brushes her lower lip when she closes her mouth and she barely suppresses a shiver. But he steps back and she watches the small crowd with him for a while, the edges of her perception gradually morphing as the drug takes hold. Then she starts to stare at Gilfoyle instead.

“Can you even see anything without your glasses?” she shouts.

When he doesn’t answer, or says something she can’t hear over the music, she’s not sure, she carefully takes the glasses off his face and looks through them. The lenses distort the light from the dancefloor, blurring it.

He makes a grab for the glasses but she snatches them away. He looks different without them; naked in a way. His eyes are large, almond-shaped and long-lashed. When he playfully tries to get the glasses again, she backs away. He gives chase until she’s backed against the wall, away from the edge of the balcony, where nobody can see them. She lets him have the glasses back. He puts them on and then his lips are pressed against hers, and her hands are in his long hair.

This has never worked with her previous boyfriends. They were always too tall, or too short. But in her three inch heels, Monica is almost as tall as Gilfoyle and their hips are level enough that when he hitches up her cocktail dress, she can brace one bent knee against the wall and press her pelvis against the front of his jeans. She thinks maybe she shouldn’t be doing this with Gilfoyle. She should probably push him away before this goes any further. She dismisses that thought and reaches down to unzip his pants.

So now she’s actually doing this with Gilfoyle. He kisses her as he moves; maybe it isn’t quite as magical as her fantasies, but it’s still pretty darn good. He licks his fingers after a short while and reaches between them. Monica thinks to herself that that has never worked either, but apparently it’s a day of firsts because it does and she has to grip his shoulders to stop from collapsing. Then he’s breathing hard against her cheek.

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Monica,” he whispers, which is so hilarious she nearly bursts out laughing.

* * * * *

An annoying chirping noise breaks into Monica’s sleep. It repeats again after a couple of minutes and she opens her eyes blearily. Her mouth feels like sandpaper and her head is full of weasels squirming to get out. Good party, then, she thinks.

Vague memories of the previous night resurface. She remembers Russ Hanneman and another erotic dream about Gilfoyle. Asshole always seems to be in her head these days. As the memories take shape, gradual dread comes over her. 

It wasn’t a dream. She got high as a kite and fucked Bertram fucking Gilfoyle.

Maybe he won’t remember, she thinks hopefully. He had to be at least as drunk and twice as high as she was. She can’t even remember what happened after that, except that she went to the restroom again and then got an Uber home. 

She checks the WhatsApp message that woke her up with apprehension, but it turns out to be some multi-message panic from Richard about a meeting with other CEOs on Monday.

But then, looking at the list in WhatsApp, she notices a pentacle with a 3-message count displayed beside it. Her heart sinks.

**Today** 3:36 AM  
Barney and no STDs  
3:42 AM  
*Vasectomy  
so don’t worry  


She stares at the messages for a moment. Then she pulls the covers right over her head and wishes she didn’t have to go to work on Monday. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amusingly, I actually looked to see if any Barbara Cartland romances had a hero called Bertram and while it seems Jared could be wrong about that, I did discover it was the name of her father! Meanwhile, Georgette Heyer’s novel “Arabella” does have a protagonist called Bertram. The things you learn when you’re fact-checking things you made up on the spot...
> 
> ETA (Dec 2019): OMG, thanks to the amazing [mkmetz](https://mkmetz.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, we now have this amazing illustration for this chapter! (Warning: NSFW)
> 
> [ ](https://66.media.tumblr.com/fb4069d16e6cd761fbff7a6abcdc58d1/e8d60f182eebfbfd-36/s1280x1920/fdff2b441f96b7c10bd78031fab4f403b5617413.jpg)


	6. Cable Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica reluctantly takes Gilfoyle with her to visit new offices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://www.reddit.com/r/cableporn/> (SFW) - it will make sense when you’ve read the chapter.
> 
> I thought I'd at least post this chapter before season 6 starts and I discover how much of an alternate universe this is!

Much to Monica’s relief, Gilfoyle is not in the office yet when she comes in on the following Monday morning. Admittedly, he never comes in before 10 o’clock and there’s no reason why he would be behaving any differently just because they had sex. He hasn’t messaged her again since the terse missive about having a vasectomy—who the fuck has a vasectomy before their early thirties anyway?—and not having STDs. She’s hoping she can just pretend the whole thing never happened.

Jared is interviewing a voluptuous young woman in Richard’s office. Monica wonders if she is a receptionist, then wonders if she’s being sexist to assume that a pretty woman is a receptionist, and whether being mistaken for a receptionist when you aren’t is really a bad thing. She dismisses the thought and plunges into her own corner of the recruitment drive that is overtaking every part of Pied Piper, reviewing the dozen finance resumés an agency has thrown her way. She’s been sharing payroll responsibilities with Jared since she joined, and now they have some actual money and an increasing workforce, they need someone dedicated to the task.

Monica’s heart skips a beat when she sees Dinesh and Gilfoyle arrive at work together. They are holding coffees and staring at the candidate as Jared escorts her out past them. Gilfoyle is in profile, light reflecting off the wire-framed glasses perched on his flat nose. His thick, protruding mustache twitches as he speaks.

“Close your mouth, Dinesh,” he says. “You’ve already got one, remember?”

“No, yeah, obviously,” says Dinesh, dragging his eyes away. “But you don’t, right?”

“I split up with Tara.” Gilfoyle sits at his desk without looking at Monica. He’s wearing a long-sleeved top that looks as if it’s been stored scrunched up in a ball. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Tara dumped you,” Dinesh reminds him with glee. He sits at his own desk, then turns toward Gilfoyle, his back to Monica. She pretends not to listen. “So wait, does that mean you _do_ have a new girlfriend?”

“If I did, would I tell you? You didn’t even know I’d broken up with Tara.”

“So you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Monica sees Gilfoyle slowly turn his chair toward Dinesh. “Could this intense curiosity for my private life be you trying to compensate for your own shortcomings in that department? You should have taken me up on that offer of the Java method. You know, it uses Java 9 streams and lambdas. Should be enough to perk up your little brown pecker anytime.”

Oh God. Monica feels even more embarrassed by their drunken hookup. Gilfoyle is such a dick. She looks at Dinesh to see his reaction, but he’s facing Gilfoyle, so she can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Actually, we had a great time. Several great times, in fact,” Dinesh adds, as if this is in any way an appropriate conversation to be having at work. “So fuck you, Gilfoyle.”

Dinesh’s chair is in between Monica and Gilfoyle; when he turns it around and pulls it forward to start work, Monica suddenly finds herself staring at Gilfoyle, who is still facing in their direction. The last time she saw him, he was fastening his pants, an unusually surprised look on his face as she slid away from the wall to go and find a bathroom.

Gilfoyle’s smile of satisfaction at winning another conversation with Dinesh fades when he sees Monica’s sour expression and he turns to his workstation. Monica picks up her phone and sends a message.

In case you’re confused: you don’t have a girlfriend  


She silences her phone and switches to Outlook to answer her emails. When she checks her phone messages a short while later, there’s one from the pentacle. Monica fires off her response and Gilfoyle replies immediately.

**Today 11:35 AM**  
want to talk?  
**Today 11:53 AM**  
No  
k lmk if you do  


Yeah right. The last thing she wants to do is talk about it.

* * * * *

They hold their Senior Management meeting that afternoon. Monica tries not to look at Gilfoyle, who as usual is sitting opposite her with Dinesh beside him. 

“I hope everyone had a good time on Friday!” says Jared cheerily. “I know I did! I hadn’t been dancing for months. And it was great to see us all let our hair down and really get to know each other better!”

Monica sure as hell wishes she hadn’t gotten to know Gilfoyle any better. She sneaks a quick glance at him across the table. He happens to look at her at the same time, then immediately returns to intently glaring at his coffee mug. Monica also looks away and wonders if he regrets their tryst as much as she does. Or if he’s just sulking because she sent him a snitty message.

“Yeah, it was—Well, I don’t really remember,” says Richard with an embarrassed laugh. “I think I was pretty wasted.”

“I hope you didn’t give anyone board seats,” says Monica.

She remembers how pissed she was the time Richard got drunk at Peter Gregory’s toga party and put Erlich on the board of Pied Piper. She wonders vaguely whether Erlich is still in Tibet, then remembers his clumsy attempts to hit on her and dismisses the thought. 

Dinesh chuckles at her joke but Gilfoyle remains stony-faced. Definitely sulking, then. Dickhead.

“I had a really good night,” announces Dinesh. “In fact, I had a really good weekend. How was your weekend, Gilfoyle? Were you all sad and lonely, moping around the incubator on your own, without a girlfriend?”

Okay, Monica sees what Gilfoyle meant about Dinesh being a dick too. They fucking deserve each other.

“Unlike you, Dinesh, I don’t view women as accessories whose only purpose is to validate my manhood,” says Gilfoyle evenly. “Speaking of which, I’ve been wanting to run a penetration test on our network. I think we should get someone onboard to do that soon so we can find our weaknesses and fix them before we start leaking user data.”

“Oh yes, good idea,” says Richard with enthusiasm. “That’s usually run by an external agency. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Yeah, I think so. One of my ex-hacker friends from MIT works for a security firm that specializes in pen testing. They might be able to do it.”

“One of your friends? You don’t have any friends, Gilfoyle,” says Dinesh. He narrows his eyes smugly. “No friends and now no girlfriend.”

“Anyone would think I don’t like people,” says Gilfoyle darkly, though he looks as if he’s addressing his coffee mug.

“I’ll get Holden to draft an NDA for the pen test,” says Jared, making a note. “Just in case they do get through our security or uncover anything we don’t want splashed across social media. In the meantime, I believe Monica has an update on our premises?”

“Oh well, not a great deal. I’ve got some promising leads, though. I’ve booked appointments at several places in this area on Wednesday,” says Monica. “I thought grouping them into one day would be more efficient.”

“I’ll come with you,” says Gilfoyle immediately.

Monica stares at him in disbelief. “Uh, why?”

“Because we already agreed this a couple of weeks ago,” he says seriously, looking her in the eyes. “I want to make sure nobody talks you into signing a lease on a fancy office wired by some fuckwit who thinks confetti streamers are a good look for patch cabling.”

Monica does remember agreeing to let him come along, though she also remembers that he didn’t ask to go with Richard and Jared when they visited a couple of places last week. Which means the asshole is using this as an excuse to be with her. 

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” says Richard distractedly. “Jared and I are at that business symposium in San Francisco on Wednesday, so Gilfoyle can go with you.”

Dinesh is messaging someone—Charlotte, presumably, judging from the grin on his face—and seems uninterested in the conversation. Monica tries to think of some professional reason why Gilfoyle can’t come with her; something better than “we fucked against a wall like a pair of horny teenagers and I never want to see him again.” When nothing suitable comes to mind, she decides she’ll just have to go along with it.

“Okay, fine.” She glares at Gilfoyle. “I’ll send you the addresses.”

* * * * *

They meet outside the first office mid-morning on Wednesday. Though their paths have crossed at work for the last couple of days, Gilfoyle has made no further attempts to talk to her. He’s seemed much the same as usual: sitting in meetings looking bored; working at his desk with his headphones on, obnoxious music leaking tinnily from the cups; exchanging banter with Dinesh, who is milking the whole idea of Gilfoyle not having a girlfriend with a sadistic delight that makes Monica want to slap him. Monica has caught Gilfoyle looking at her a couple of times, though, so she’s feeling apprehensive about having to spend an entire day with him.

Gilfoyle looks her over wordlessly when she steps out of her Uber, slowly taking in what she’s wearing, first with a look of disbelief and then, much to her irritation, of amusement. For his part, he’s in a tight-fitting grey baseball top with three-quarter length sleeves that exposes his hairy forearms and emphasises his biceps and torso, and there is no fucking way the asshole has picked that by chance. He opens the door to the building for her with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. She gives him a dirty look.

This first place is a bust; too dark, too cramped, hard to visit due to the half-dozen startups still piled into it. There are wires hanging from the ceiling and spilling out of broken floor boxes.

“See what I mean,” says Gilfoyle dryly, crouching down to pull at a floor box. “Confetti streamers. Looks like someone had a fucking party with these cables.”

“Yeah. Even I can see that,” snaps Monica.

He gives her a dark look and stands up. “Are we going to score the places and give Jared our feedback?”

“No. _I’m_ giving him the feedback.” She gives him a withering look she first perfected in high school; he glowers back at her. “_You’re_ looking at the wiring. That’s what you came for, right?”

She turns her back on him and goes over to say goodbye to the realtor, then heads outside to wait for their Uber. She checks the app and wonders if eight minutes is long enough for a vape. Gilfoyle comes out to join her. He folds his arms and observes her with a sardonic expression.

“What?” she asks impatiently, reluctantly looking up from her phone.

“I can see why you had trouble working with your ex. It’s hard for a guy to be nice when you’re treating him like shit.”

Monica draws herself up to her full height and gives him a disdainful look. “I’m just being professional.”

“No, you’re not. You’re being a bitch,” he says flatly. “I get it. You’re embarrassed and you don’t want to do it again.” He looks her over slowly. “Even I can’t ignore the message of the Breakup Sweater.”

Monica self-consciously smoothes the beige cable knit sweater she’s wearing. It’s too warm for the season and she forgot that Gilfoyle was present the first time she wore it to tell the Pied Piper team Raviga was not going to fund them. She pointedly looks out for their Uber.

“I don’t know why you’re so pissed anyway,” he continues in a monotone. “We’re both single. We wanted to do it. There won’t be any consequences. Just because we work together doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.”

“You got me high and took advantage of me,” she says ruefully, even though she knows it’s unfair.

“What the fuck?” he exclaims. His eyes widen and he looks uncharacteristically confused. Confused and, to Monica’s surprise, fearful. “No, I—Listen, that was the first time I got high in years, so I guess I wasn’t—But you took my glasses off—”

“Oh yeah, that well-known come-on,” she scoffs.

“—and then grabbed my dick!” he adds angrily. “You kissed me and grabbed my dick! And now you’re fucking blaming me for it?”

Monica makes a face as it all comes back to her. She hopes nobody in the street has heard what he’s just said. 

“Right. Yeah. I guess I did do that—with your— But I was high and—” 

She’s not sure how she wants to end that sentence. “_–And you were super hot, so how could a girl resist?_“ Shit. She can’t pretend she doesn’t want him after that performance. She remembers being pinned to the wall, his mouth against hers and his hips between her legs, and feels warm all over. She firmly dismisses the memory and rolls her eyes. Jesus, how the fuck did she get into this situation?

“Okay,” she starts more confidently, raising her hands. “I’m not saying you made me do anything I didn’t want to do. You know, in that context. But it was a mistake and it’s not going to happen again.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’m not fucking stupid, Monica. Here’s our ride.”

A car pulls up beside them; Gilfoyle gets into the back seat without waiting and slams the door emphatically. Monica sighs and walks around the car to get in on the other side.

* * * * *

“It’s… dark,” says Monica, trying not to look too disappointed.

“I like it,” says Gilfoyle with glee.

It isn’t just that someone has painted the walls a deep blood red that is probably Gilfoyle’s favorite vision of a womb-like Hell; Monica and Jared have budgeted for redecorating. It’s everything else as well.

“I’m guessing the building opposite was built recently?” asks Monica, looking out of the window at the brick wall just a few feet away.

“Oh don’t mind that,” says the realtor dismissively. “There is plenty of artificial lighting and the place was entirely rewired by the last company here before it went bust.”

Gilfoyle kneels down on the floor and rips open one of the floor boxes. “I can see that. You know where the patch panel is?”

The realtor leads them down a corridor to a brightly-lit, windowless room where they find two large patch cabinets side by side. Gilfoyle opens the metal mesh door on one of them.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs in admiration.

“Oh wow, it looks like someone braided its hair,” says Monica.

Gilfoyle steps forward and runs his hands over the color-coded, nearly tied cables. 

“They’re even labeled,” he says a little breathlessly.

Curious, Monica steps closer to peer into the cabinet alongside him. “Are the colors different kinds of cable?”

“No, except for the fiberoptic one there, they’re all standard Cat-6, but looks like they used colors for specific purposes.” He traces the cables, the thick silver ring on his index finger reflecting the blinking lights. “Blue for switch to patch panel network, red for data exit to the routers and firewalls mounted at the top, green for Voice Over IP. It’s a work of art.”

He gives Monica a heated look and she’s suddenly acutely aware of his proximity, both of them standing in the doorway of the cabinet. She can almost smell him: a faint hint of the strong scent from the hot day under the artificial smell of soap and laundry powder. She thinks about the club again and feels a rush of warmth that makes her heart race. Gilfoyle licks his lips, eyes drifting down to her mouth, and then glances at the realtor, who is standing behind them, a fixed smile on her face.

“Do you have to be here?” he asks her sharply.

She nods, smile still in place. “Oh yes. Gotta escort guests at all times.”

Gilfoyle steps back and sighs. Monica takes a deep breath to compose herself and closes the cabinet. They follow the realtor out of the room.

“So where to next?” he asks when they leave the building. 

They’re walking a good three feet apart and not making eye contact. Monica stops and shows him the location on her phone. He peers at the screen without coming closer.

“Looks very convenient for you,” he comments.

Looking at the map on her phone, Monica realizes that Google Maps has helpfully included a pin called Home near the next office.

* * * * *

After a quick vaping break for Monica—Gilfoyle apparently meant it when he said he’d quit—they head to the next place, only two blocks from her building. This office is okay. Not great, and Monica thinks it’s probably too small given the headcount she and Jared are aiming for; a headcount that Jared has advised her not to share with Richard on account of his fragile nerves. Gilfoyle declares the wiring and electrical facilities okay too. Monica can sense that neither of them are going to shortlist this one.

While they’re visiting, Gilfoyle’s phone suddenly buzzes loudly. He steps away to check his messages while the building manager who is showing them around discusses the kitchen facilities with Monica.

“Is everything okay?” Monica asks Gilfoyle, joining him when he puts his phone away. The building manager waits politely for them at the other end of the room.

“There’s an emergency,” says Gilfoyle flatly. “Our Continuous Delivery system has gone down and I need to fix it. But I didn’t bring my laptop.” 

“You need to go back to the office? I guess you could skip the next place and then come to the one after that. Or just go. There are only two more this afternoon anyway.” She can’t help smiling when she thinks of their previous visit. “I think I know what floats your boat now. I’ll be on the lookout for well-braided cables.”

“No, I want to see them all myself. And it’s the lunchtime rush hour. It would take too long to get to the office and back, and this won’t take more than 10 minutes to fix.” His phone buzzes again and he shows her a notification from something called PagerDuty. “I just need a laptop with a stable connection and access to our network. This is going to keep pinging me until I fix it. So we need to go somewhere I can do that.”

Monica observes him suspiciously. “So you want to fix it yourself but you don’t have your laptop with you, and you don’t want to go back to the office.”

“Yes,” says Gilfoyle in a slow monotone, as if explaining something to an idiot. “If only there was somewhere nearby, say maybe two blocks away, where there was a broadband connection and a laptop already set up with our network.” 

Monica rolls her eyes and sighs. “Okay, fine.” She lowers her voice. “But if you try anything, I’ll tell everyone you say ‘Jesus Christ’ when you come.”

* * * * *

“Nice place,” comments Gilfoyle when Monica ushers him into her condo. “Guess Raviga paid well.”

“Well, yeah. Skimming all that grease from the financial system.” Monica puts her purse on the dining table, pushing a box of Pied Piper merchandise out of the way. “When I got my first bonus, Peter advised me to buy the most expensive thing I could afford. It was built in the 1970s, so things kind of keep falling apart, but it’s got two bedrooms.”

Monica is aware that she’s rambling and he doesn’t really care about the apartment. But it’s weird to see Gilfoyle in her home; none of the Pipers have ever been here, not even Richard. She’s used to seeing Gilfoyle at work or at the incubator, surrounded by geeky toys, piles of tech, and all their colleagues. And now he’s prowling her living-room, looking out of the window at the balcony, and running his hand along the back of the tasteful suede sofas her interior designer recommended.

Compared to the Hacker Hostel, Monica’s apartment is a marvel of minimalism, but it’s still messier than she likes it to be when she has visitors. There’s a small pile of Bream-Hall swag she keeps meaning to put away on an armchair, and the box she cleared out from her office when she joined Pied Piper is still lying on her desk near the windows. She also realizes she’s left the laundry basket just outside her bedroom door, its contents waiting to be taken into the tiny utility room to be washed. A couple of items are lying on the floor where she missed it.

Gilfoyle looks around with undisguised curiosity, taking in the family photos above the fireplace and the framed movie posters on the walls; most are of classics like Casablanca that he probably has no interest in. Then he notices the open bedroom door and seems about to go and take a look; Monica runs over to close the door before he sees the unmade bed.

“Laptop’s over there,” she says, pointing at her desk, where her MacBook lies connected to its docking station.

He gives her a sly smile but goes over to sit at her desk. He logs into the laptop’s administrator account, his back to her, and starts typing rapidly in a terminal window. Monica watches him for a minute and then decides to make sandwiches.

When she brings them over, he’s watching a series of text progress bars slowly moving across the screen. He grabs a sandwich without taking his eyes off the screen. Whatever he’s looking at is taking a long time, so she pulls up a chair and sits beside him.

“Is it working?” she asks.

“Yeah. I really need to automate this shit,” he says thoughtfully.

“Guess it’s lucky we were so near my place when that alarm went off,” she comments, because she wasn’t fucking born yesterday.

Gilfoyle doesn’t look directly at her but his eyes narrow in amusement. “You think I caused a system failure at work just so I could get in your pants again?”

“I think Becky, who is in the office, could have taken care of it.”

He looks as if he’s going to protest but instead gives her a grin, making eye contact. “Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little,” he admits. “It needed to be done. But not necessarily right now or by me.”

“You manipulative asshole,” she says with a grudging smile.

She isn’t as pissed as she thinks she should be. In fact, she finds his honesty refreshing. 

Honesty. Yeah, right. Just after he not only wormed his way into an entire day with her, but lied to get into her home. That would be why she’s dated such a stream of failures. She picks up the plate and takes it back to the kitchen.

* * * * *

“You know, we have an hour and a half before we have to be at the next place,” he says, checking his phone.

He’s followed her to the kitchen, of course, any pretence of needing to babysit Pied Piper’s systems abandoned. He leans on the outer side of the breakfast bar.

“Maybe we could find something to do with that time,” he adds.

She washes the plate they used and puts it on the drying rack. 

“Why, you still all turned on by that patch panel?” she asks innocently. 

“The fuck?” he growls. “No. For the record, I am not turned on by hardware. I don’t know why everyone thinks that!”

He sounds offended but Monica can’t help needling him just a little more. She turns to face him, leaning against the kitchen sink.

“You sure? I mean, it was super neat with all the color-coding and the cable ties. You did seem very hot and bothered when we looked at it.”

He suddenly emits a low, rumbling chuckle, which isn’t something she’s heard from him before. He moves around the breakfast bar to join her in the kitchen and Monica feels her heart rate speed up. 

“I was standing beside the gorgeous woman I had smoking hot sex with on Friday and you think I was turned on by the cables?” He gives her a devious smile. “Though there actually _is_ a Reddit called ‘Cable Porn’ for posting images like that.”

“‘Cable Porn,’ seriously?”

“Yes. Seriously.”

They laugh and then stare at each other for a moment, their smiles fading. She remembers Friday and his whispered “Jesus Christ, Monica.” Her thoughts must show on her face because he moves closer and hesitantly touches her hair with the back of his hand. Guys are always into the hair; Monica makes sure it is always fucking awesome.

“I want you, Monica,” he says frankly.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she responds, folding her arms even though his words do something funny to her insides. “You really think we’re going to go at it after you manipulated me into letting you come here?”

“It’s not like you didn’t work it out,” he says flatly. He lowers his hand from her hair. “I know you’re worried about work, but I do know how to keep my mouth shut. I’ve been here before. It’s not like you and I are friends or anything. We’ve barely exchanged five words in all the years we’ve known each other. When it’s over, we’ll go back to that and it’ll be fine.” 

“Yeah, right,” says Monica dubiously. She very much doubts that they’ll feel as indifferent to each other after sleeping together for a while.

Gilfoyle sighs and narrows his eyes at her. “I think we both want this. Friday was amazing. Fucking crazy, but amazing. And I know you enjoyed it too,” he adds with a hint of irritation, though his expression softens and he tentatively touches the hem of her sweater. “I just want to make you feel good again.”

“Uh-huh, nothing in it for you at all,” says Monica, though she smiles. He does look hot in his chest-hugging top.

He slips his arm around her waist. “I think we’ll be good together. No strings attached. Just a hedonistic, uncomplicated hookup until it’s out of our systems. If you want to keep finding some nice guy to date, like Trey, go ahead.”

“Oh, I see,” says Monica teasingly, her hands flat on his chest, still unsure if she wants to embrace him or push him away. “You want to bang me but you also want to fuck around.”

“I am not bound by the constraints of traditional sexual relationships, and neither should you be,” he says. His hands snake under her sweater, touching her bare back. “It’s not like you’ll ever take me home to see your folks, right?”

“No. My mom sent me a long rant about your Bloomberg interview. My dad wasn’t a fan of cryptocurrency.” She runs her hands up his chest to the collar of his baseball shirt and wraps her arms loosely around his neck. “But I guess I don’t have to tell her.”

Monica reflects that maybe it was naive of her to think this was going to go any other way. Well, fuck it. She pushes him backward against the breakfast bar and kisses him. Her nose bumps his glasses and she gets a mouthful of beard at first, but when he’s shifted his position to kiss her back, their mouths meet in a deep, satisfying kiss.

“How long do we have left?” he asks breathlessly.

Monica untangles herself from his arms and turns away to look at the time on the oven.

“Not long enough,” she says regretfully. “It’s going to take nearly an hour to get to the next office from here at this time of day.”

“An hour from here? Fuck it, that’s too far from where we are now. Let’s skip it. We’ll just tell Jared it was a bust.”

Monica sighs when he embraces her from behind and starts to trail passionate kisses down her face and neck, his hands sliding under her sweater up to her chest. 

“Oh fuck, okay,” she murmurs, turning back toward him.

He puts his glasses on the breakfast bar and pulls off his baseball shirt, a quick maneuver that means Monica is suddenly standing in her kitchen with a half-naked Gilfoyle. He’s hairy, just as she suspected, an even spread of short, straight hair coursing across his chest and belly. She’s always found a hairless six-pack kind of creepy, like her brother’s GI Joe toys, and is not surprised to find that Gilfoyle has a physique similar to most of her tech admirers: not overweight, though soft rather than chiseled, but undeniably masculine. He puts his glasses back on and smiles at her.

Yeah, of course he looks fine, you’ve got the hots for him, she reminds herself. He’s wearing a pendant on a silver chain around his neck; she’s noticed the thin chain before, visible above the neckline of his shirts, though he always keeps the pendant tucked into his clothes. He pulls it off over his head before she can see what it is, and places it on top of his shirt on the breakfast bar. Her mind on more important things, Monica runs her hand up his chest to the pentacle tattoo now visible on his left shoulder. The reversed cross on his right arm flexes and twists with his biceps as he tugs at her sweater. But this is just sex; she doesn’t have to like his weird beliefs.

He kisses her again, and she can’t decide if Gilfoyle is an amazing kisser or she’s just so turned on by him that anything he does feels great. She hesitates, then steps back to pull off the sweater. It sparks static electricity in her hair and he smoothes it for her, stroking the long strands off her face and shoulders. Oh, he’s definitely into the hair. She doesn’t take off her plain cotton bra, instead pulling him closer for another kiss.

“Tell me you want me,” he whispers, breaking the kiss after a moment.

“Hmph?” She tries to kiss him again, because she thinks it’s pretty obvious and it seems dumb to say it out loud when she’s standing here half-naked with her arms around his neck. 

He shies away, keeping his lips a quarter inch away from hers. “Tell me you want this,” he says firmly. “Monica, say it!”

“Jesus, yes,” she says with irritation. “Okay. I want you to fuck me, Gilfoyle! There, I said it.”

She’s not sure if he’s demanded this just because she freaked him out earlier when she said he took advantage of her, or if this is some weird consent shit he’s into. He lets out what sounds oddly like a whimper and kisses her passionately again. 

Then he drops to his knees and looks up at her, his large brown eyes darkened with desire behind the magnifying lenses. His hands slide up under her tight pencil skirt, stroking the backs of her legs, and it’s almost exactly like her fantasy about the hot plumber.

* * * * *

“Shit, that was amazing,” says Monica breathlessly, sitting up straight and arching her back.

She smiles down at Gilfoyle lying beneath her, his red-tinted hair splayed out unevenly on her pink pillow. He feels around for his glasses and puts them back on; he only reluctantly took them off again earlier when she complained that the frames were rubbing against her thighs.

“Can’t see you without them,” he explains when she raises her eyebrows at him in amusement. 

“What, you can’t see me even at this distance?” she asks.

She leans down close enough to let her long hair trail across his bare skin and Gilfoyle lets out a delightful throaty groan. 

“Closer doesn’t help. I’m far-sighted.” He looks her over up with appreciation. “Wouldn’t want to miss the view.”

Monica smiles though it’s a bit weird to see Gilfoyle’s familiar face, complete with square wire-framed glasses, ogling her naked body. He looked different enough without them that he almost felt like someone else, but now, he’s definitely Gilfoyle again. She reaches for the box of tissues on the bedside cabinet and lies down beside him. She gives him a handful before using them herself.

“I thought there’d be less mess,” she says, throwing the tissues in the direction of the bathroom. She observes him curiously, remembering his message on Friday night. “Did you seriously have a vasectomy?”

“Uh, yes,” he says. “It only stops the sperm from joining the rest of the fluid. Everything else is the same.” He narrows his eyes and puts on a serious expression. “So if you ever need an extra participant for a bukkake...”

“Ugh, that’s gross, Gilfoyle,” says Monica, wrinkling her nose.

Gilfoyle folds one arm back behind his head; it draws Monica’s attention to the tuft of dark hair in his armpit and in turn, to his nakedness. She’s naked in bed with Gilfoyle. The guy who calls Dinesh a terrorist, sulks over the use of a ticket tracking system, and who manipulated their work colleagues and herself to get Monica in bed with him today.

“Why did you have it?” she asks, trying to distract herself from the gremlins infesting her thoughts; it would be callous to give him the cold shoulder now.

He shrugs. “For the same reason people usually have vasectomies.”

“You already have kids?” Monica widens her eyes when he frowns and shakes his head. “Oh, you don’t want kids?”

“Do you want kids?”

“Well, not right now, no.”

“So what are you complaining about?” he says, playfully stroking her arm. “It means my partners don’t bear the responsibility of avoiding unwanted accidents. And that I don’t have to trust them to do it.” His hand traces back to her neck and he runs his fingers through her hair. “You know, you’re fucking awesome.”

Monica frowns, still lost in her thoughts. “You never want to have kids?”

“Dark Lord help me,” he says in a low voice. “Okay, it’s theoretically reversible in the unlikely event I ever change my mind. But maybe we can discuss the philosophical reasons for my decision some other time?”

“Right. You were saying that I was awesome,” she says, pleased by the compliment in spite of her concerns about this situation.

“I had a hunch you’d be dynamite in the sack.” Gilfoyle stretches like a sparsely-haired cat and chuckles. “And now all your neighbors know I am too.”

“Oh it’s only Mrs. Radowski upstairs and she’s half deaf anyway,” says Monica with a laugh. “Probably didn’t hear a thing.”

“I see.” He turns onto his side and runs his fingers lightly from her cheek down to her chest. “Well, I have a refractory period of, uh, about half an hour. Maybe I can try to make you scream louder then.”

Monica makes a face. “Rain check on the rematch. I think we should go to the last visit.” She checks her bedside clock. “We’ll have to leave in half an hour to get there. It might be good, you never know!” she says, cutting him off as he starts to protest. “We really need new premises, and Jared will want to know how it went when we’re back in the office tomorrow.”

She sighs at the thought of going back to work tomorrow. Gilfoyle’s hand runs lightly down her arm again and he slips his fingers in between hers.

“I know you’re worried, but I won’t tell anyone,” he says seriously. “It’s none of their goddamn business. But I guess if we’re going to do this, we’ll need to apply the Meinertzhagen’s Haversack ruse so nobody notices.”

Monica frowns. “The what?”

“You’ve never heard of Meinertzhagen’s Haversack?” he asks in the tone of someone who knows something you don’t and is quite smug about it. Monica lets go of his hand and tugs at a pinch of chest hair; he yelps in pain and laughs. “Okay, it was a thing Jared mentioned. If you’re doing something secret, you need to confuse people by giving them false information. So—no grabbing my dick in the office.”

“I think I can control myself,” she says with amusement.

“Any time we’re not in the office, of course...” He grins happily. “I’d never fucked anyone against a wall like that. So yeah, anytime you’re feeling horny, just grab me.”

“Hmm, I’ll check out some suitable walls,” she says with a flirtatious smile.

He shuffles closer and she lets him take her in his arms. He’s broad and soft and warm, and Monica closes her eyes for a moment to enjoy the simple pleasure of being held. She can hear his heartbeat through his fuzzy chest and feels it rise and fall as he heaves a heavy sigh. He traces gentle patterns on her back and then kisses the top of her head. The conversation has helped her relax again and she’s feeling pleasantly content. She pulls away a little to look at him. 

“Do you mind if I have a cigarette?” 

“No, go ahead.”

She gets a packet from the bedside table and lights up. When she shifts back to his arms, Gilfoyle takes the cigarette from her and inhales a long drag.

“I thought you quit?” she asks in surprise.

“Yeah, I have.” He grins as he gives her the cigarette. “Special occasion.”


	7. Backpressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica continues her relationship with Gilfoyle but decides to keep him at a distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backpressure: Resistance or force opposing the desired flow of data through software systems.

The normal routine resumes the next morning. Monica arrives at 9:00 as usual; Gilfoyle arrives just before 10:00 as usual. He throws a neutral greeting at the desks around him, as usual, and Monica just raises her hand to acknowledge it without looking at him. As she stares unseeingly at the spreadsheet on her monitor, she tries to remember how she normally interacts with Gilfoyle. They’ve never been close, that much is certain, though she’s often smiled at his jokes. The less offensive ones, at least. She hopes they can settle into a routine without slipping up.

Fortunately, there is plenty of work to distract her. Richard comes by her desk and gives her—and Dinesh, since he’s nearby—a blow by blow account of the symposium he went to with Jared. Monica doesn’t dare look at Gilfoyle to see his reaction, but she can imagine he’s unimpressed by Richard’s description of a mishap with the hand dryer in the restroom. Jared comes to join them after a short while.

“Monica, should we go over the resumés for this morning’s finance candidates?” he asks. “We’ll use your office if that’s all right, Richard.”

“Sure.” Monica unplugs her laptop. “You can sit here, Richard.” 

“Enjoy the view outside the goldfish bowl for once,” says Dinesh with a chuckle.

They’re always having to jostle people around to make the most of their only two meeting rooms. Monica makes her way out of her aisle, deliberately choosing the direction that doesn’t go past Gilfoyle’s chair. She thinks it’s fortunate that a quick meeting with Jared, followed by two interviews, will keep her well away from Gilfoyle for a few hours while she eases into this new secret they have to share.

“Oh, Gilfoyle,” says Jared suddenly, turning back toward the desks before they enter Richard’s office. “Monica told me you two didn’t find any of the offices you visited yesterday satisfactory. Did you have any comments to add?”

“Yeah, that was a fucking waste of time,” says Gilfoyle, turning toward them. “The only one that had decent cabling looked like a menstruating vagina.”

Meiner-what’s-his-face aside, Monica doesn’t need to fake her look of disgust at his phrasing. But as she is standing next to Jared and involved in this conversation, she feels she has no choice but to look at Gilfoyle. He’s wearing a baggy silver top made of some velvety material which looks soft, but also makes him look overweight. He returns her gaze with his usual impassive stare, and though she suddenly has a vivid memory of him going down on her in her kitchen, she thinks she manages to keep a straight face before looking at Jared again.

“I think that one would have given us all SAD,” she says neutrally. “All except Gilfoyle, who would probably prefer to work in a cave.”

“You get less fucking monitor glare in a cave. Anyway, I’ve shown you what good cabling looks like now.” Gilfoyle swivels his chair around, turning his back on them. “Take Jared with you next time. Just make sure the patch panels aren’t shit, or budget for me and that guy Raul who is joining next week to fuck around running wires for the first month.”

He puts his headphones on. Jared watches him for a moment and gives Monica an apologetic look before leading her into Richard’s office. Monica unfolds her laptop, expecting him to start talking about the candidates, but instead, he glances through the window at Gilfoyle.

“Monica,” he starts, his brow creased with the little frown that usually precedes a Serious Talk. “Is everything okay with you and Gilfoyle?”

Monica has a clear recollection of herself lying naked in Gilfoyle’s arms the day before, sharing a cigarette. She thinks things are pretty good with her and Gilfoyle.

“Uh, sorry. What?” is the best she can come up with in response.

“I mean—” Jared’s frown deepens and he hesitates. “I suppose I shouldn’t really say, because if it isn’t—”

“Just spit it out, Jared,” says Monica impatiently, because sometimes, it’s better to rip off the bandaid. If Jared has already worked out that they’re sleeping together, she needs to know.

“Well, I was wondering if Gilfoyle is bothering you,” says Jared with distress. “I’ve noticed that he often stares at you, and you seem to be thrown together with him a lot these days: what with the cryptocurrency work, the 51% attack, the Bloomberg interview, and now the office visit. I’m thinking perhaps that isn’t a coincidence. He may be manipulating events in order to spend time with you.”

“He didn’t cause the attack, and you’re the one who suggested I go with him to Bloomberg,” Monica reminds him, scrambling to corral her thoughts into a rebuttal that will neither throw Gilfoyle under Jared’s metaphorical HR bus, nor reveal that Gilfoyle has in fact earned the right to stare at her by being amazing in bed.

“True, but he is a man with a cavalier attitude toward laws and other people’s feelings. His abusive behavior toward the rest of us is all good-humored joshing, of course,” he says lightly, though there is an edge to his voice. “But think of what he is capable of, how close he came to being deported following a mindless prank on one of his roommates. His technical talents might take a more sinister turn when applied to a woman who spurns his advances.”

Monica knows from personal experience what complete jerks spurned engineers can be; she takes the opportunity to roundly curse one asshole who even hacked into her email account. But on the other hand, she also remembers Gilfoyle’s insistence on her explicit consent the afternoon before, and feels that he might have stronger ethics than Jared gives him credit for. She can’t exactly tell him how she knows this, though.

Fortunately, Monica has spent years lying to investors looking to make a quick buck and entrepreneurs looking for funding; she’s able to look Jared straight in the eye with a sincere expression.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think Gilfoyle is attracted to me,” she says, smiling sweetly. “Believe me, I’ve had a lot of advances from a lot of men, and it was actually a pleasure working with him on the coin. I felt he really respected me as a business partner.” That at least is completely true. “You know, it is possible for a man and a woman to work closely together without any sexual attraction being involved.”

“Yes, of course. Like you and Richard.”

Monica remembers the very fleeting window of time where she considered asking Richard out on a date and wonders what the fuck she was thinking. “Yeah. Like me and Richard.”

* * * * *

The rest of the morning goes by in a blur of talking to promising finance candidates and then trying to pick between them. When she comes back to her desk, Monica discovers a WhatsApp notification from the pentacle.

**Today 12:05 PM**  
hey babe  
you free tonight?  


Monica sighs. He promised not to talk to her in the office, but of course he’s going to message her. She doesn’t look at him, even though he’s lounging at his desk, slurping cereal from his Obol. She considers whether to let him come over tonight or blow him off for a couple of days. On the one hand: hot sex. On the other: she doesn’t want to seem too eager. This isn’t serious after all and she doesn’t want to send any signals that it might be. She decides to feign being busy; that will help a little with the appearance of eagerness.

Looking for a distraction, she notices a message in the #piper-ladies Slack channel and checks it out. The channel is mostly used for announcements about the Ladies’ restroom; Monica is tasked with relaying them whenever Jared has a message to pass on. It’s more rarely used for links to feminist articles or promotions on beauty products, sometimes followed by a lengthy conversation about the apparent irony of this juxtaposition. But this time, it’s a message from Becky inviting all the women of Pied Piper to a girls’ night out the next day for her birthday. Monica isn’t generally into girls’ nights out, but thinks this sounds like another good opportunity to let her hair down without having to entertain sleazy investors or creepy would-be entrepreneurs. Plus, as a bonus, Gilfoyle will by definition not be there, which will help with not seeing him too often.

Once she’s had a salad for lunch and immersed herself in the minutiae of her busy schedule, she forgets all about both messages. She is therefore surprised when she takes a vaping break mid-afternoon and Gilfoyle comes out to join her.

“Wow, I can see you’re totally a pro at this stealth thing,” she says sarcastically when he approaches her. “Not much good having that haversack if you’re going to fucking come and talk to me every cigarette break!”

He gives her one of his expressionless stares. “Mindy and Asif came in a couple of minutes ago and you three were the only smokers out here. Nobody will notice I’m not simply having a shit.” He glares at her. “You didn’t answer my message.”

“Jared has already noticed that we’ve been spending a lot of time together,” says Monica with irritation. “He says you stare at me and he thinks you’re manipulating events so you can hang out with me. So maybe dial down the creepy stalker routine and cool off the ‘coincidental’ hanging out.”

“It won’t occur to him that we’re actually fucking,” says Gilfoyle confidently. “Why would someone like you fuck someone like me?”

“Beats me,” she says, exhaling a cloud of cinnamon-flavored vapor.

“Hmm. Maybe you need a reminder if you’ve already forgotten.” A shy smile parts his thick beard. “So. Wanna hook up tonight?”

“Well…”

Monica remembers the previous afternoon and smiles, her annoyance abating at the memory. They stare at each other for a moment, but before Monica can decide between her sexual appetite and her pride, Gilfoyle rolls his eyes.

“Fuck. I forgot. I can’t. It’s Thursday. Games Night.”

Of course, now he’s said he can’t make it, Monica really wants him to come over. “Right. What are you playing that’s more important than seeing me?”

“Something called MTG,” says Gilfoyle nonchalantly. “You probably don’t—”

“You’re blowing me off for _Magic: The Gathering_?” exclaims Monica with a laugh. “No wonder you said you don’t get laid very often!”

“I have to be there. We’re playing with my set,” he says, putting on his usual deadpan performance, though she can detect a subtle undertone of petulance. “It’s a really good game.”

“If you happen to be an ubernerd,” she says teasingly.

“I’m free tomorrow night,” he offers.

Monica spreads her hands. “Sorry. Girls’ night out. Becky’s birthday. I’m free Saturday night, though. I’m seeing a friend at lunchtime, but after that, I’ll be at home.”

“Okay, Saturday, then. I’ll come over at 6:00 and bring food. How does that sound?”

“It sounds like a date,” says Monica with amusement. “Are you joining the patriarchy and competing for my reproductive system after all?”

Gilfoyle narrows his eyes. “I’m not competing. If you want to do the whole dating thing, you’re free to find someone else. But okay, I’ll eat before and come over at 7:00. Then we’ll fuck and I’ll leave. You definitely can’t confuse it for a date then.”

“No,” says Monica shortly. She rolls her eyes. “I guess I kind of knew romance wouldn’t be your strong point.” 

“If you want romance,” he says, deadpan, “I’ll come over with a rose in my teeth.”

That ludicrous mental image makes Monica chuckle in spite of herself. He stares at her for a moment, face still impassive, but then a slow, close-lipped smile appears in his thick beard and crinkles his brown eyes. Monica thinks he is kind of cute under all the hair and deadpan persona.

“Yeah, no. Wouldn’t want you to put yourself out,” she says with good humor. She switches off the e-cigarette. “I’m heading in. Enjoy the wizards tonight. And stop fucking staring at me in the office!”

* * * * *

Becky has chosen a bar not far from the office for her birthday celebration; about half the women in the company have come. Perhaps not surprisingly, after all giving Becky hugs and cards, they break up into groups along the lines of their usual working teams. They occupy two tables; the front-end and QA engineers who sit at the social area end of the office are on one table, and the backend engineers and Monica, who sit at the kitchen end of the office, are standing around this one. Monica is amused to find herself in the backend group, but as Becky is the woman she talks to most in the office—even though that’s hardly at all—it does make sense. 

“I can’t believe Dinesh actually let you out of his sight for five minutes, Charlotte,” says Priyanka with a laugh an hour later, after quite a few drinks on Monica’s company credit card.

Charlotte grins. “Oh. Don’t worry. He’s sent me three messages already.”

“I don’t think I could date a guy who is that needy,” says Becky, making a face.

“Aww, no. It’s sweet,” protests Charlotte. “I mean, we’re not serious or anything, but it’s cute how he wants me to pay attention to him all the time.”

“Sounds like a puppy,” comments Monica, who has never liked the needy type. 

“Yes, a really cute puppy! He’s such a darling. And he has other qualities too.” Charlotte raises her eyebrows and adopts a conspiratorial tone. “Let’s just say he’s _very_ well put together, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh my God. Ew!” exclaims Priyanka. “He’s my boss, Charlotte!”

“He isn’t my boss, but that’s still way too much information,” agrees Monica with a laugh.

“At least I’m safe from anyone giving us salacious details about _my_ boss,” says Becky with amusement.

“Yes, I think you are,” says Monica innocently. 

She’s intoxicated enough to wonder how she would describe Gilfoyle’s assets if she had to, though not enough to actually voice the thoughts.

“Ugh.” Priyanka wrinkles her nose. “Gilfoyle is gross. I swear he doesn’t shower sometimes. I was working with him on the deployment Terraform a few weeks ago and I seriously thought about getting him a can of deodorant!”

“Oh yeah,” says Becky with a regretful nod. “That’s definitely a thing. I guess sometimes he just can’t be bothered to shower. He’s been okay recently, so maybe it was just because PiedPiperCoin was struggling.”

“Still, you’d think he’d notice, jeez,” insists Priyanka, who is very drunk. “He thinks he’s all cool and ironic, but he’s just a racist douche with a bad attitude and poor personal hygiene. He’s the kind of guy who stands in a corner at parties, getting drunk and staring at the girls’ boobs. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a fucking incel. I mean, who’d want him?”

Hey! thinks Monica. 

“Well, there’s someone for everyone,” she says weakly, because hot as the sex was, she can see a lot of truth in what Priyanka says.

“Actually, Gilfoyle has had plenty of girlfriends,” says Charlotte. Monica momentarily wonders how she’s such an expert on Gilfoyle’s love life before realizing the answer is obvious. “In fact, Dinesh says he’s the one who’s had the most girlfriends since they’ve all known each other. He broke up with the last one just recently, but they were together for years, so he must have been doing something right. Dinesh says she was really hot, too, with big boobs and an Amy Winehouse kind of vibe.”

“Amy Winehouse was a dog,” says Priyanka, unimpressed.

Monica, meanwhile, is taking note of this new information about the mysterious Tara. She thinks about her own flat chest and wonders how big the boobs were.

Becky turns to Charlotte. “Is that really what you talk about with Dinesh? Gilfoyle’s love life?”

“Oh no. We talk about other stuff too.” Charlotte looks up in the air and counts on her fingers as if seriously trying to remember. “Gilfoyle’s crap code. How many servers Gilfoyle built in their garage that one time. How stupid Gilfoyle’s hair and beard are. How pathetic Gilfoyle is now he doesn’t have a girlfriend...”

The women laugh, but Becky shakes her head. “Look, I get that he can come across as a creep, and he says some really gross things to Dinesh, but he’s a great engineer and we’d all be out of a job without him,” she says loyally.

“Yeah, he was pretty badass when we uncovered the attack,” agrees Monica, because she thinks that’s common knowledge and the sort of thing she would say about a colleague she hasn’t had sex with. “And well, Pied Piper would be selling out its users to advertisers by now if Richard hadn’t followed Gilfoyle’s advice and gone for the ICO.”

“We’d also be rolling in a Series B,” says Priyanka wistfully. “I was going to buy a condo. But I guess now the coin is picking up, we might get a bonus after all.”

As a temporary worker, Charlotte isn’t involved in Pied Piper’s bonus scheme, but the engineers all give Monica an expectant look; she raises her hands.

“I’m making no promises. But with a commodity coin, we have more control over the amounts of money we can extract from liquidation,” she says enthusiastically. “Investors are incredibly risk-averse, so without having to answer to anyone else, we have the freedom to experiment and pick the optimum time to cash in or reinvest. Given time, we may even be able to sell some classic stock and diversify our portfolio across a range of other investments to ensure stable returns that aren’t contingent purely on the user retention of our developers’ products.”

The engineers and Charlotte listen politely, but she can tell they neither understand nor care about the potential of Pied Piper’s innovative funding initiative, so she leaves it at that. She doesn’t understand how intelligent people who get excited about computer algorithms can be so indifferent to the mechanics of money markets. It makes her realize how lucky Pied Piper is to have both a man with the cryptocurrency expertise to create the coin and someone like herself who knew how to use it to finance their company.

“So, uh, maybe on the bonus. We still need our coin to gain more value,” she explains. “Which depends on getting more users and keeping them.”

The women nod gravely, a little disappointed, but not surprised. It occurs to Monica that these are the people who stayed loyal to Pied Piper when things went sour after their launch two months ago. They do deserve that bonus when it comes.

Charlotte excuses herself when her phone rings—judging by her grin, it’s Dinesh—and Monica takes the opportunity of a lull in the conversation to check her phone. As usual, there’s some word-vomit from Richard to herself and Jared about something he read about that he thinks he should do as CEO.

“Priyanka, did you watch that video about Scala 3.0 that Dinesh linked yesterday?” asks Becky.

“Yeah.” Priyanka shakes her head. “I don’t know. I mean, I did like Scala when I did it at Googlibib, and some of the changes sound really good, like deprecating those fucking implicits. I know Dinesh wants to introduce Scala, but it’s got a steep learning curve once you get beyond the basics, and most of us are Java or C++ devs. It’d be like that time last month when Richard suddenly wanted us to use Golang.”

Becky rolls her eyes dramatically. “Oh Jesus, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I can learn any programming language, but if there’s a deadline, you don’t want to be throwing in something just for the lulz. I’m glad Gilfoyle told him to fuck off.”

“I swear Richard only wanted to adopt Go because you have to use tabs,” says Priyanka with a roll of her dark eyes. “He is such a dork. And he still hasn’t noticed that Gilfoyle converted all the Terraform and Ansible repos to use spaces.”

Monica lets the conversation flow over her, but makes a note of Gilfoyle’s little acts of rebellion. She wants to talk about him some more, get an in-depth understanding of how the engineers view him, but she knows that will just draw attention to her interest in him. Charlotte comes back; the engineers are now deep in their conversation about programming languages, so she takes one look at them and turns to Monica.

“Aww, look what a sweetie Dinesh is,” she says.

She shows Monica a message on her phone where he professes to miss her, with many emoji to emphasize the point. It is a sweet message and Monica smiles, remembering what it’s like to have someone pretend you’re the center of their world, even if you’re only dating casually. 

When she checks her own phone, she discovers that Gilfoyle has sent her a picture of Dick Van Dyke and another one of a wet cat, captioned “c u tmr!”

* * * * *

Far too few hours later, Monica is looking up at an unfamiliar building a few blocks from Pied Piper and wishing she didn’t agree to meet Dawn before lunchtime. Her head is still a little foggy after all the drinking the previous night. Though at least she didn’t fuck anyone against a wall this time, she thinks wryly.

“Why are we here, exactly?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise,” says Dawn with glee, pushing the door open.

It’s a pleasant shared office space, bright and tastefully decorated. It’s mostly empty on this Saturday morning, though there’s a training course happening in one of the meeting rooms. Monica follows Dawn up to the second floor and then into an adjacent section which turns out to be a large, empty open plan office.

“Oh, is this for Pied Piper?” asks Monica, suddenly remembering that she mentioned their current search to Dawn the other day.

“Yes, I told you about Marc’s friend Bill who works in the shared office space we just went through.” Dawn gestures at the door. “They’re moving out soon too, and he spoke to a guy called Brad who works for the company that owns the building. He said his boss Mike was so pissed at Hooli for breaking their lease that he was willing to give Pied Piper a payment break of six months on this space if you wanted it. I get the feeling this guy Mike really wants to stick it to Gavin Belson. You’d have to let them use your name in their literature, obviously. We’re a little early, but he’s coming to meet us so you can discuss it with him directly.”

“A payment break,” says Monica with interest, immediately sensing a good deal. She thinks Richard might derive some satisfaction from sticking it to Gavin Belson as well. “We’d have to read the fine print, obviously. But maybe I could come back next week with Richard Hendricks and the rest of the senior management team so we can move quickly on this. Our Chief Systems Architect will probably want to check out the wiring before we agree to anything.”

“Your Chief Systems Architect,” repeats Dawn. “That’s the guy who was on Bloomberg, right?”

“Uh, yes.” Monica tries to sound unconcerned. They haven’t discussed it, but she can guess that Dawn doesn’t approve of Gilfoyle’s stance on VCs.

“How are things going with Trey?” asks Dawn.

“Oh, the date was fine,” says Monica vaguely. She glances at Dawn and sighs. “But I’m kind of, um, sleeping with the other guy now, so I guess I won’t be seeing Trey again.” 

“Oh.” Dawn observes her silently for a moment. “You blew Trey off for the crypto geek?” When Monica looks at her with surprise, she adds, “I recognized him from your description when he was on TV. I’m guessing Pied Piper doesn’t have more than one Chief Systems Architect. And you’re right. He looks like a Satanist Metalhead.” 

“You think I’m making a mistake,” says Monica.

“Look, I don’t know the guy, Monica,” says Dawn kindly. “Anything I say will be a knee-jerk reaction to seeing him once in an interview, combined with my own prejudices. I mean you weren’t kidding when you said he’s not Kyle. But if he makes you happy, that’s all that counts.”

Monica thinks making her orgasm isn’t quite the same as making her happy, but for the purposes of this conversation, it seems good enough. The building owner comes to join them at that point and she’s able to defer worrying about her relationship for a little longer.

* * * * *

Monica moves the box of Pied Piper swag off the dining room table, but then, after a moment, moves it back again. She doesn’t want to make it look as if she’s spent the afternoon preparing for Gilfoyle’s arrival, even if she has spent the afternoon preparing for his arrival.

She has made sure all her dirty clothes are in the laundry basket and put it in the utility room. Her bed is made with fresh sheets. She’s cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, and vacuumed throughout. She’s just not sure how _tidy_ she wants the place to look; on the one hand, her mom always said you should tidy up before guests come over, but on the other hand, Gilfoyle already saw her apartment and its normal state of untidiness on Wednesday. If it’s too tidy now he’ll know she did it for him and that might break the illusion of this being a casual hookup. She wishes she’d suggested meeting in a hotel.

She’s also tried to strike a balance in her own appearance. She’s showered and shaved her legs and armpits, and given herself a minimal trim—fuck the Barbie doll pornstar look; she only did it once, for an asshole who wasn’t appreciative enough, and it’s not like Gilfoyle complained about that either on Wednesday. She intends to wear sweatpants and a t-shirt for their non-date, but she changes her underwear to a black lace set which is less comfortable but more aesthetically pleasing than her favorite bra with the sweat stains under the arms. Once she’s dressed, she’s so busy trying to decide what to do with her hair that she practically jumps when the doorbell rings. She pulls her hair into a ponytail and grabs a hoodie from her living room armchair.

“Hi,” says Gilfoyle simply when she opens the door. He looks her over, taking in the hoodie she’s wearing. “Bream-Hall? Maybe I should have worn my Bitcoin T-shirt. We could have had another argument.”

“Yeah, pleased to see you too,” she says, standing back to let him in. 

She’s relieved to see he hasn’t made any great effort either; he’s wearing a dark red t-shirt and the black and white flannel shirt he wore the night of the 51% attack. She notices that his wavy hair is slightly damp, as if it hasn’t had time to dry after a shower; it makes her smile when she remembers her conversation with the other women the night before. He’s carrying a plastic bag and the helmet he wears when he’s riding his electric bike thing.

“You came in your electric bike thing?”

“No. I was kind of hoping to do that in your bed,” he says with a smirk. Monica rolls her eyes. “It’s an Outrider, by the way. The ‘electric bike thing’ is a second-hand pimped Outrider. Now sitting among the Leafs and Teslas on the street outside. Just to add a touch of class to the neighborhood.” 

He puts the helmet beside the box of swag on her little dining table before striding into the kitchen. He pulls two bottles of beer out of the plastic bag and places them on the counter by the fridge.

“I guess it _is_ a ‘bring your own beer’ kind of evening,” comments Monica, following him into the kitchen. “At least you didn’t bring your laptop.”

“I didn’t think I’d be bored enough to need my laptop. You want one?” he asks, holding out one of the beers.

Monica shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m having wine.”

“More for me, then.” Gilfoyle leans into the fridge and lays the bottle on the shelf, then uncaps the other one. He frowns. “How many guys have you dated who brought their laptops on a date?”

“A couple,” says Monica with amusement. 

She gets a glass out of the cupboard opposite the refrigerator, then goes over to open the fridge again. Gilfoyle tentatively rubs her back as she leans in to get a bottle of white wine. The touch makes her stomach flutter, but she steps away from him to fill her glass on the opposite counter; Gilfoyle doesn’t try to touch her again when she puts the bottle back in the fridge.

“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” he says, deadpan. “You mainly date engineers.”

“No—not all the time,” protests Monica weakly, sipping her wine. She wonders if she should move closer to him to initiate something, or if he’ll make a move.

“Yeah. I see,” he says flatly. “You fucked a tech support guy once. Maybe QA. But mainly developers. All those young men in their prime, begging Raviga for money, so grateful to get the attention of a hot woman like you. And you, you’re hot for guys who code.”

“Totally,” she says, mimicking his deadpan delivery. “Maybe we should have a threesome with Dinesh.”

“Nah, I offered once but he freaked out.”

Having dropped that bombshell, Gilfoyle nonchalantly walks out into the living room. Monica tries to decide if he’s joking about the threesome, then follows him. He’s looking at one of the family photos on the wall above the fireplace.

“You look exactly the same. Just with darker hair,” he says, pointing at her in the middle of the picture, between her brother and sister. “Your family looks happy.”

Monica smiles at the picture. “Families always look happy on photos like that. But yeah, we’re close. That was taken about fifteen years ago, before my father died.” 

Gilfoyle pokes his ringed finger at Tabitha, who had decided to curl up on the back of the sofa when they had the picture taken. 

“I fucking love cats,” he says with enthusiasm, and Monica is not at all surprised. “We can’t have one because Richard is allergic. And Dinesh has some fucking stupid thing about dogs being evil, so we can’t have a dog either.”

“Maybe if you ever move out of there like a grownup, you can have your own menagerie,” suggests Monica.

Perhaps suddenly conscious that he’s shared something more personal than usual, Gilfoyle nods neutrally as if he doesn’t know what else to say. He takes a swig of beer and looks at her again. Monica decides to smile encouragingly; it’s not like she’s let him come over just to look at her photos. He takes the hint and tentatively places his free hand on her shoulder. She meets him halfway when he starts to lean in, tilting her head so her prominent nose doesn’t hit his glasses. He’s taller than last time they kissed because she’s wearing flat slippers tonight, but he bends down to meet her lips. He tastes of beer and toothpaste, but after a second, the sensation of his mouth on hers and his hand sliding down her back makes her forget about that. 

She puts her glass on the mantelpiece and he breaks the kiss for a moment to do the same with the beer. She slips one arm around his waist and her other hand onto the back of his neck to pull him close. This time, she’s turned on enough that she doesn’t notice the taste of his mouth. She loses herself in the feeling of his large body in her arms, his thick neck warm under her palm, his hands cupping her ass, even the cold frame of his glasses just another sensory experience in the food of sensation that makes her warm in all the right places.

“Oh, I forgot. I can’t stay long,” says Gilfoyle, drawing back. He’s breathing hard, his usual impassive mask momentarily cracked to reveal the man inside. “I—I promised to play Gates of Galloo with Dinesh back at the house.”

“Oh.” Monica thinks being on a deadline is the unsexiest thing she’s ever heard. “Guess we’ll have to cut out the foreplay then.”

She’s half tempted to take her clothes off and suggest a move straight to the bedroom, but maybe that’s a bit too melodramatic. Instead, she takes her wineglass off the mantelpiece and goes to sit on the couch. What with everything people have been saying about Gilfoyle the last few days and this deadline, she’s not feeling the sex thing anymore.

Gilfoyle comes to sit beside her. He’s holding his bottle of beer, but he rubs her knee with his free hand.

“We can just talk if you like. We don’t have to do anything.”

Jesus, has he been to relationship counseling or something? she wonders irritably. Thinking about their conversation, though, Monica looks at him with curiosity. 

“Did you seriously offer to have a threesome with Dinesh?”

“Yeah.” Gilfoyle relaxes and leans his arm on the back of the couch, just behind her head. “Tara was staying with us and I thought it would be hot. I offered a threesome, but Dinesh liked the idea of fucking Tara as long as I wasn’t around. Except I was high when I told him he could do it, and I forgot to tell Tara. In the end, she didn’t want to do it anyway because she thought it would be awkward for him and me, you know, living together.”

Monica twists sideways to stare at him. It means she has a better view for their conversation, but she’s also slightly further away from him. Gilfoyle looks mildly disappointed but curls up one of his long legs so he can face her too.

“So let me get this straight,” says Monica, wondering what the fuck she’s letting herself in for. “You actually _wanted_ your girlfriend to fuck your roommate. Is that like a kink or something?”

“Yeah. You ever heard of compersion?” When she shakes her head, Gilfoyle uses the same serious tone he used to explain hashing algorithms. “It’s a term used in polyamorous relationships. It’s the opposite of jealousy, where you take pleasure in your loved one being gratified by another person.”

“Right. So you wanted Tara to be ‘gratified’ by Dinesh,” says Monica, still trying to wrap her brain around this. “And you wanted to, what, watch?”

“It didn’t specifically have to be Dinesh and I didn’t have to watch,” explains Gilfoyle neutrally. “But he’d been telling us how he didn’t have any success with women so I thought it would be funny to help him out. The threesome was just in case he was into me being there too.”

“You know what, Gilfoyle, maybe you and Dinesh should just date each other,” says Monica, shaking her head in disbelief. “Charlotte says he talks about you all the time when they’re together. And you’ve been here ten minutes and we’ve pretty much talked about nothing but Dinesh!” 

He huffs in irritation and unfolds his long legs as if he’s about to stand up. Even though she isn’t in the mood for sex, Monica is disappointed; the kiss was really hot and she was kind of hoping they’d have another one before he rushes back to Dinesh. But on the other hand, she’s not going to beg him to stay.

“This is just background information on a specific event you asked about,” says Gilfoyle, making no move to go even though his body language is tense. “Tara was into it. If you’re not, that’s fine. Just to be clear, I’m not asking you to fuck Dinesh, Monica.”

Put like that, it does sound a little ridiculous. “It’s bad enough I’m seeing you,” she says with a grudging smile. “Doing both of you would make work _really_ awkward.”

He turns toward her and his normally impassive features light up with a smile. He really is kind of cute, Monica thinks once again. He reaches out to touch her hand, hesitantly stroking the palm with the tips of his fingers. Monica sighs with pleasure; touching hands is an underrated erotic art. She lets her fingers curve upward to brush his palm while he strokes hers. He stops smiling and gives her a heated look.

Okay, so now, she’s definitely back in the mood. Since he’s apparently not going to make a move, she decides to do it. After all, they’ve both gone to the trouble of grooming themselves and meeting up; might as well make the most of it. 

Gilfoyle’s large eyes widen when she kneels on the couch to kiss him. They’re really good at this, she thinks, running her hands through his clean, soft hair. She doesn’t notice the flavor of beer and toothpaste this time, maybe too turned on to pay attention to anything more than the sensation of his mouth on hers. When she lowers her head to kiss his neck, she tastes soap on his skin and it makes her laugh.

“What?” he asks.

“You taste like soap,” she explains. “Someone said you didn’t shower enough the other day. It just seems ironic now you’re all nice and clean for me.”

He narrows his eyes at her and there’s a moment’s hesitation before he decides that she’s just teasing him. 

“Gotta keep up my greasy-haired sysadmin creds,” he says flatly. “Anyway, I can’t get in the fucking bathroom most days because Dinesh is always in there preening himself. I swear he spends a fucking hour in there in the morning, doing fuck knows what, and—” He gives her a drolly sheepish smile. “And I’m talking about Dinesh again.”

Monica laughs. “Maybe we should do less talking,” she says.

“A little less conversation, a little more action?” asks Gilfoyle.

“Are you seriously quoting _Elvis Presley_ at me?”

His eyes widen again. “Am I? Fuck, you’re really doing a number on me, Monica.”

“And you ain’t seen nothing yet,” she retorts with a chuckle, popping the button on his jeans and unzipping the fly before crawling onto his lap. 

He gives a little cry of surprise when she shoves him backwards to lie on the couch. They rearrange themselves so he’s lying lengthwise, still fully dressed except for the loosened pants, with Monica straddling his hips. She shucks off the hoodie and pulls her t-shirt over her head. There’s a momentary sly smile on Gilfoyle’s lips when he cups her lacy black bra, recognizing that she put it on for him. He soon loses the smile when she raises her hips and then each leg to remove her sweatpant; there really isn’t any graceful way to do that from a seated position, but Monica thinks she does pretty well. Gilfoyle sure as hell isn’t complaining when the outcome is a woman in lacy black underwear sitting on his lap.

“Fuck. You really are gorgeous,” he says with just the right amount of awe to make her feel amazing.

She smiles and unties her hair, fluffing it out. As she leans in to kiss him, she reflects that one thing is for certain: she’s going to make him forget all about Dinesh and the Gates of fucking Galloo.


	8. Change Log

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica shows off the new office; Dinesh has a new resolution; Gilfoyle and Monica's relationship remains definitely casual. Definitely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change log is a record of changes made to data in a system.

“Wow, it’s magnificent!” says Jared, walking up the stairs in Hooli’s former office. 

Monica has shown him the plans and the deal that the landlord is offering them, of course, but Jared has been so busy with hiring that he hasn’t actually seen it yet. She must admit that the decorated co-working space looks impressive now it’s full of people. A taste of things to come.

Gilfoyle is last up the stairs and he smiles at Monica before walking past her with the others. He’s in a good mood, maybe even too good a mood; with the coin rising on the back of hundreds of new Galloo users a week, and his new relationship with Monica, he seems almost cheerful these days. Monica wonders if anyone else has noticed.

“It’s a little bright,” he says. “But I could find a dark corner to settle into.”

“It’s great,” says Richard with enthusiasm. “When do these guys move out?”

“Oh no, this isn’t our space.” Monica indicates the door to the section she visited with Dawn. “We’re actually right through here.”

She leads them into the empty part of the building and they stare at the wide, empty space with surprise. Very pleased with the effect, Monica explains that they will have the four floors to themselves. By no means too much space given how many new staff they’re going to need, especially now their success has brought them to the attention of the NSA.

A moment later, Monica steps back from the spectacle of Richard puking in a bucket—Jared seems to have that situation under control—and glances at Gilfoyle.

“Wanna see the server room?” she asks him, trying not to sound too flirtatious.

“Sure,” says Dinesh, still observing Richard with disgust. “Let’s go see the server room.”

Gilfoyle gives the back of Dinesh’s head a bland look and closes his eyes for a moment before exchanging a glance of mild frustration with Monica. They can’t exactly shake off Dinesh without arousing his suspicions, so Monica leads them both downstairs to the large room in the basement.

“Wow, it looks like something off the Cable Porn Reddit,” says Dinesh when Monica proudly shows them the neatly arranged patch panel.

Monica grins at Gilfoyle behind Dinesh’s back. He pretends to be unimpressed, though his impassive stare and folded arms don’t fool Monica. He inspects the components Hooli left behind in a server rack. 

“Hooli engineers did a good job,” he says neutrally.

“Did you just pay Hooli engineers a compliment?” asks Dinesh with disbelief. “You must be in a good mood.”

Gilfoyle meets Dinesh’s amused gaze with one of his unsettling stares. “You better not touch anything, Dinesh. You wouldn’t want to blow the power in the whole block again.”

“Ha-ha. Fuck you, Gilfoyle,” says Dinesh humorlessly. He looks around. “Just think, we’ll be owning a part of Hooli!”

“Renting a part of Hooli, you mean,” corrects Monica. She thinks about Peter Gregory and how much he had grown to hate Hooli by the time she worked for him at Raviga. “It does feel good after all the shit Gavin Belson has put you through.” She looks at the Hooli components in the rack Gilfoyle is inspecting. “At least they didn’t leave that box thing with the logo that looks like a penis.”

“That was a fucking awesome box,” says Gilfoyle unexpectedly. “Barker took our exact specs. Shame they only ever used it in Hooli data centers.”

“The Hooli design was a pretty cool fuck you to Gavin Belson too,” says Monica, who remembers that Gavin’s signature was nothing like the logo on the box. “Hats off to whoever designed that logo.”

“Dang’s finest hour,” says Dinesh with a grin. He doesn’t explain who Dang is; Gilfoyle looks as if he already knows, and Monica doesn’t care. “Oh, hey, what are the bathrooms like?”

“Interesting association of ideas,” says Gilfoyle.

“Why don’t you go and find out?” suggests Monica. “Second door down the corridor, on the left.”

As soon as Dinesh is out of the room, Gilfoyle looks at Monica. When she smiles at him, he slips his arm around her waist and pushes her up against the springy mass of neatly arranged cables in the patch panel. They share a quick, passionate kiss. 

“Hmm, maybe I should get one of these at home,” says Monica with a chuckle, her arms still around Gilfoyle’s neck. She nods towards the patch panel behind her. “Things could get kinky with all these colorful cables to play with.”

“Yeah. I’ll bring my crimper and show you how to make Ethernet cables,” says Gilfoyle flatly. “Straight-through and crossover. Making enough wires for this place should keep us busy for hours.”

“I bet you’d actually enjoy that, wouldn’t you?” she says teasingly, letting her lips brush against the thick beard around his lips.

He responds by pressing his lips to hers again. He smells of himself rather than soap this time—their conversation on Saturday didn’t convince him to shower more often, then—but Monica is surprised to find she doesn’t mind. She thinks it’s a sexy, manly smell. Also, kissing him when Dinesh might come back any minute is hella hot. She’s kind of disappointed when Gilfoyle steps away from her with a glance at the doorway.

“You want to hook up tonight?” he asks, playing with a strand of her hair.

Monica moves away from the patch panel. “No, not tonight.”

There’s no real reason he can’t come over tonight, except her desire to keep this casual and low commitment. She thinks meeting up more than once a week will feel like dating, and she’s not sure she wants that much Gilfoyle in her life.

“Keeping it cool. I understand,” he says neutrally. “Saturday as usual, then?”

“Guys. We totally need to have this place!” Dinesh starts talking at them before he enters the room, unwittingly giving them time to compose themselves. “The restrooms are all done up with like this kind of marble and they have those blade hand dryers. And there’s a shower and a hairdryer! How cool is that?”

“Just what you want if you suddenly need to impress someone with a cool hairstyle,” comments Gilfoyle.

“Yeah, like you’d know anything about that. Your idea of preparing for a date is to do nothing at all!”

“I like to be honest about what my date is getting,” says Gilfoyle. “You once took so long to prepare that you actually missed the date. I’m not surprised you gave up being a Muslim. You’d never have time for all the praying and fasting with the amount of time you spend in the bathroom at Newell Road.”

“Why anyone would want to spend any time in the bathroom at Newell Road beats me,” says Monica with disgust, though she’s also annoyed by Gilfoyle’s comment about Dinesh’s religion. Good call on keeping things cool, she tells herself.

“Well, there you go, Monica,” says Gilfoyle with a twinkle of amusement in his narrowed brown eyes. “You have our approval in our respective areas of expertise. The server room for me. And the restrooms for Dinesh.”

* * * * *

Everyone is so enthusiastic about the new place that Richard and Jared have them looking at interior designs by the time they have their next management meeting.

“Then we’ll have green decals on the wall and these colorful banners hanging from the ceiling to soften things up a little,” says Richard enthusiastically. “It’ll be like a medieval banquet hall!”

“Medieval banquet hall sounds better than the aircraft hangar it currently is,” says Dinesh, looking at the photographs on his laptop.

“I was thinking we could have a naming competition for the meeting rooms,” says Jared, ignoring him. “Maybe on a theme like famous figures in computing, for instance.”

“Well, or something else,” says Richard.

Dinesh puts on his best apologetic look. “Yeah, no offense, Jared, but every company I’ve worked for has had meeting rooms named after famous computing figures. Maybe we can pass on another round of Ada Lovelace, Alan Turing and Grace Hopper.”

“But it’s such a celebration of the diversity in our field of business!” Jared looks crestfallen. “How can our engineers not be inspired when thinking of Alan Turing’s brave struggle—”

“—with chemical castration?” completes Gilfoyle with undisguised amusement. “I know that inspires me to not live in 1950s Britain. Not sure it helps with the programming.”

“Plus it’ll make half our engineers angry all over again about the inaccuracies in The Imitation Game,” points out Dinesh.

Richard shakes his head gravely. “That movie was trash.”

“Agreed, but I’m for it as long as we also have one named after Charles Babbage,” says Gilfoyle.

“He designed the first general purpose calculator in the early 19th century,” explains Jared for Monica’s benefit, like she’s some fucking moron.

“And was notoriously difficult to work with,” says Richard. “I can see why you’d like him, Gilfoyle.”

“Okay. How about something more fun, like, I don’t know. Countries?” suggests Monica.

Gilfoyle gives her an amused look; Monica thinks it’s kind of cute. “What, so we can really get Dinesh’s hopes up about visiting his family on the company dime by saying things like ‘You’ve got a meeting in Turkmenistan next week’?”

“More like confusing you,” says Dinesh with enthusiasm, as if he’s just caught Gilfoyle out on his own joke. “Isn’t that where Tara’s family was from?”

“No. Uzbekistan.” Gilfoyle has an evil glint in his eye. “Now who’s being racist?”

Dinesh glares at him. Monica wonders how the fuck Gilfoyle managed to meet a hot Satanist from _Uzbekistan_ in a bar. Richard is thinking about something else.

“How about pipes?” he says. “There are loads of different types of pipes, you know, organ pipes, bagpipes, uh, tin pipes...”

“Oh, so like music pipes?” says Dinesh. “Not plumbing pipes.”

“Or smoking pipes,” says Gilfoyle. 

Monica nods in understanding even though her thought had been the same as Gilfoyle’s. “Right, as in the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Obviously.”

“Oh, we could use ‘palendag’!” suggests Jared. “Like in that other video posted by the Filipino who did the guitar riff on the poor man who fell in the ravine.”

Gilfoyle narrows his eyes. “The poor man who fell in the ravine because you made us live stream a fucking dead condor egg for two weeks.”

“Okay, anyway, we can name the rooms after pipes!” says Richard enthusiastically. “Jared, look up as many names as you can. Especially any medieval pipes!”

“On it already, Captain!” says Jared. He holds up his phone.

“How many meeting rooms are we getting anyway?” asks Dinesh. “Will there be small ones for interviews and phone calls?”

“Yes, and big ones and medium ones,” says Jared. “Richard and Monica will also have offices we can use, as well as—” He checks a list on his laptop. “—Phil, the new Head of Marketing, who starts on the 6th, Akash from finance, and the heads of Sales and HR when we’ve recruited them. They’ll also be available to use when their occupants are elsewhere.”

“Wait, how come you and Monica get an office and Gilfoyle and I don’t?” Dinesh asks Richard. “I’m the VP of Engineering on that org chart! Why don’t VPs get offices?”

“Because VP is a bullshit title invented to make people with fragile egos think they’re important?” suggests Gilfoyle.

“Because you guys can work more effectively with your respective staff if you’re in the bull pen with them,” says Richard. “All the offices are upstairs, so you wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on development if you were up there.”

“It’s the same reason I don’t have an office,” says Jared placatingly. “Some roles require a more hands-on approach than others. I need to be close to Richard and it’s simpler if I sit outside his office. But Monica and Richard obviously have to have offices because they routinely deal with confidential financial information. Same goes for HR.”

“And Marketing?” asks Gilfoyle. “You afraid we might catch sight of the latest variation on the ‘Tables’ video and leak it on the Internet?”

“Well, for some positions, it’s a matter of prestige,” says Jared weakly. “We need to attract the best candidates.”

“But VP of Engineering isn’t a matter of prestige.” Dinesh folds his arms and pouts. “Okay. If I have to sit in the bull pen, I want to pick my own chair and equipment, and I want my own EV parking space for the Tesla, because fuck having to park away from the entrance just because some asshole with an Outrider got there first.”

He glares at Gilfoyle, but he isn’t paying attention; he’s looking at Richard. “Will we be allowed to visit you in your fancy offices upstairs or will we have to make an appointment?” he asks.

“Oh, I’ll continue my current open door policy, of course!” says Richard. “You can come in anytime, with any problem!”

“Yeah, no, _I’m_ going to introduce a ticketing system,” says Monica, because there’s no way she’s having people randomly barge into her office. “First come, first served, and management reserves the right to refuse admission.”

Dinesh shrugs as if to say “who the fuck would want to visit you anyway?” but Gilfoyle gives her a little smile.

* * * * *

“Well, that was fun,” says Monica.

“Yeah, we’re crushing it in the bedroom department,” agrees Gilfoyle, stretching out across her bed. 

Monica lights her cigarette with a chuckle. “Maybe we should enter a competition or something.”

“I don’t think other people would be that impressed with watching us have sex. You kinda need to be one of us to appreciate how good it is. And that’s only because we have compatible genes.”

“Compatible genes?”

“Yeah. We just think of it as a stink to get rid of, but sweat contains pheromones to attract a mate.”

“Oh, so _that’s_ why you don’t shower,” says Monica with amusement.

Gilfoyle doesn’t let her quip interrupt him. “It’s been scientifically proven that you’re more likely to find the sweat of someone with compatible genes arousing because the pheromones are different.”

“I don’t find your sweat arousing!” protests Monica. She frowns. “Also, when the fuck have you smelled mine? I shower every morning!”

Gilfoyle lifts himself up on one elbow, facing her, then suddenly grabs her arm and lifts it so he can sniff her armpit. 

“Okay, yeah. You mostly smell of cigarettes and that almond shampoo you use, but I can detect your real smell. Especially right now.”

“Jesus, just when I think you can’t get any more gross,” says Monica, lowering her arm.

“Smell is very important. I’ve been training to improve my sense of smell for years. It’s a skill we don’t practice enough. I like your scent, and given all this—” He indicates their naked bodies and the bed. “—I guess you don’t mind mine either. Studies show that the reason is that we have compatible genes. Smelling each other’s pheromones before sex is an instinct to ensure we pick partners who will help us produce strong offspring.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re attracted to me because we’d make great babies,” states Monica flatly. “That feels ironic.”

“Because of the vasectomy? I think there are enough people in the world,” says Gilfoyle seriously. “At least I’m doing something about it. But the point is, we’re attracted to each other and that’s what makes the sex so great.” He sits up. “Anyway, I gotta go.” 

Gilfoyle leans over the edge of the bed to pick up his boxers from the floor. Monica looks at his hairy ass and thinks the pheromone thing is probably as good an explanation as any why she finds sex with him so amazing. Well, that and he does know a thing or two about a woman’s body.

“Rushing off to see Dinesh again?” she asks, trying not to sound annoyed.

He turns to look at her, still bare-chested. She runs her eyes over the even spread of dark hairs across his loose pectoral muscles and has to resist the temptation to reach out and touch them. She knows why he has to go, but she still feels irrationally annoyed that he doesn’t seem to mind.

“If you don’t want him to find out, I need him to think I’m not seeing anyone,” he explains, putting on the silver Satanic pendant he hides under his clothes.

“Yeah, I know. Shouldn’t you shower first too? Talking about smells.”

“By the time I get home, I’ll just smell of me. Dinesh’s sense of smell is far worse than mine anyway. It’s been blunted by all that spicy food.” When Monica pulls a face, he adds, “That’s the excuse he gave when I told him my sense of smell was better than his.”

Monica puts out her cigarette. “Okay, run off. Enjoy your video game or whatever.”

“Actually, I think we’re going out,” says Gilfoyle grimly. “Charlotte has a new job in Portland so they’ve split up. Dinesh has this idea we should go out for drinks because we’re both single.”

“So you’re actually going on a date with Dinesh?” asks Monica with surprise.

Gilfoyle gives her a pained look. “The fuck? No. He thinks hanging out in a bar is going to make us not single. Banging Charlotte a grand total of about five times seems to have convinced him he’s Satan’s gift to women.”

“You’re going out on the prowl?” Monica laughs. “You and Dinesh? Good luck with that.”

Gilfoyle pouts and pulls on the rest of his clothes in a sulking silence. Monica reflects that one good thing about seeing someone as unattractive as Gilfoyle is that she doesn’t have to worry about competition.

* * * * *

“Dinesh. Tell Monica what you told me,” says Gilfoyle in his usual flat voice.

Monica is making herself a mid-morning drink in the office kitchen a few days later. She looks up from her preparations and observes the two engineers with curiosity. Dinesh is wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt in a particularly bright shade of orange. Gilfoyle is his usual scruffy self in a crumpled olive top, but there’s a twinkle in his eye that bodes badly for whatever Dinesh is about to reveal.

“Okay,” says Dinesh proudly, as if he doesn’t know he’s being set up. “I’m going to get jacked!”

Monica blinks at him. “Uh, okay. Why?”

“Such an excellent question,” says Gilfoyle, turning to Dinesh. “Why, exactly, do you want to get jacked?”

“Because I have a little money now, and I’m going to use it to improve my health.” Dinesh points at Gilfoyle. “I look at you, Gilfoyle, and I see a man who has let himself go. And I don’t want to look like you when I get older.”

“You’re older than me,” points out Gilfoyle.

“Exactly! So I’ve got a gym membership and a personal trainer. Healthy eating, a good training regime and I’ll be swol in no time.” 

He flexes his left arm; Monica thinks it looks perfectly fine as it is. “Uh, well, that’s certainly an ambition,” she says noncommittally.

Gilfoyle gives Dinesh a narrow-eyed stare. “I give it a week before you’re back on the beer and pizza.”

“You’re on,” says Dinesh. “I’m going to do this. You’ll see, I’ll be a new man! All the girls will love me.”

“I think insecure men like yourself vastly overestimate women’s attraction to muscles,” says Gilfoyle.

“Just because you somehow managed to get laid despite looking and smelling like a slob who has spent five days straight at a Magic: The Gathering convention, doesn’t mean women don’t appreciate a man who takes care of himself. Monica, tell him.”

“Uh...” 

This is a tough one, given she’s attracted to the man who has just been described as a slob. Then again, he _could_ do with better personal hygiene, and not just when he’s hoping to have sex with her.

“Well, I do appreciate a man who takes care of himself,” she says innocently, not looking at Gilfoyle.

Dinesh nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I mean, look at him. He has moobs!”

“Moobs?” Gilfoyle turns and gives Dinesh a dead-eyed stare.

“They _are_ almost bigger than mine,” says Monica with a smirk.

“That’s not difficult,” grumbles Gilfoyle, and Monica is totally going to get him for that one next time he comes around to her place looking for sex.

Dinesh prattles on obliviously. “We went out on Saturday, you know, two single guys with a bit of money, looking to meet some chicks. I’d get a conversation going, turn on a little charm, and this fucker just sat there glaring at everyone.”

“And yet I’m the one that woman in the red dress decided to talk to at the bar,” says Gilfoyle flatly.

Monica’s stomach does an unpleasant flip. She gives Gilfoyle a dirty look, but he is now making himself a coffee.

“Yeah, I don’t get it,” says Dinesh, shaking his head. He jerks his thumb between himself and Gilfoyle. “Why would anyone choose him over me? I thought if I brought him along, I’d be the obvious choice. I’m better looking, I’m charming, I—”

“—reek of desperation,” completes Gilfoyle.

“No, I don’t!” Dinesh looks at Monica. “Wait. Do I? Do I reek of desperation? I don’t, do I? Monica?”

“You do come off kinda needy. But Charlotte liked you, so other women will too,” she adds hastily when Dinesh looks crestfallen. “There’s someone for everyone.”

“And if all else fails, you can always let your parents arrange that marriage they keep talking about,” says Gilfoyle. “There’s no need to turn into Captain America.”

“Well, fuck you, because I’m totally going to do this!” says Dinesh, pointing a finger at him. “And I bet I’m going to get a new girlfriend before you do! I bet that woman the other night just wanted the time or something!”

“And once again, you would be wrong.”

Gilfoyle pulls out his phone and shows Dinesh a WhatsApp message. Monica can’t read it from where she’s standing, but there’s a waving hand emoji and a lot of exclamation marks. The icon on the chat shows the face of a blonde woman.

“Fuck,” swears Dinesh, and Monica’s stomach drops; whatever was on that message has convinced him that this woman wants to date Gilfoyle. “Yeah, well, I’m still going to train with Biff at the gym. At least if nothing else, I’ll be able to deck you!”

“I look forward to celebrating my victory with your still scrawny self in six months time when ‘Biff’ has given up on you,” says Gilfoyle.

The engineers head back to their desks, still bickering. Monica seethes at the back of Gilfoyle’s wavy hair, both inexplicably angry and annoyed at herself for the feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while; Perfect Illusion took up all my writing time over the holidays and it's taken a while to get back into the writing routine, but mkmetz on Tumblr has kept the inspiration going with a regular stream of magnificent hallfoyle pictures!


	9. Foreign Key Constraint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In databases, a foreign key is a column in one table used to link it to another table. A foreign key constraint specifies that the key can contain only valid values that are present in the other table.

Monica and Gilfoyle settle into a routine over the next couple of weeks. He comes over on Saturday, they have sex and then he leaves. He doesn’t mention the blonde and Monica doesn’t ask. Gilfoyle makes a half-hearted attempt to get her to stay for games night one Thursday, and she thinks maybe it would be fun to go to the movies together one day, but the latter would basically be a date and the former would tip off their colleagues that something’s up, so they do neither.

One morning, Dinesh arrives early—by developer standards, 9:00 am might even be called very early—and without making much effort to conceal what he’s doing, rewires all Gilfoyle’s monitors. Then he sits at his desk with a smug expression, chuckling to himself. 

Payoff doesn’t come for another hour, when Gilfoyle finally makes an appearance. He apparently notices nothing amiss until he logs in and all his screens light up. Monica can guess from his hiss of irritation that his carefully arranged application windows are all in the wrong place. Gilfoyle turns slowly to glare at Dinesh, who is intently staring at his own screens, though with a tell-tale smirk on his face.

“The fuck have you done to my monitors, you filthy sand-dwelling towelhead?”

Monica turns to give him a sharp look which he ignores, and Dinesh swivels his chair around to face him. 

“First of all, I’m not a fucking Arab from the Gulf, you sad, racist fuck, and second, that’s what you get for all the comments about Biff and my training regime, which is going great, thank you very much. I’ll be buff and fighting off the ladies in no time.”

Dinesh flexes an arm that hasn’t changed even slightly since he first announced his new fitness kick, and Monica can’t help giving Gilfoyle a look of amusement over his shoulder.

“You keep telling yourself that, Dinesh. It won’t make it true,” says Gilfoyle grumpily, turning away from them to rewire all the monitors again, presumably because changing the wiring is somehow simpler than rearranging the application windows. 

“Okay, just because you got that blonde’s phone number a couple of weeks ago doesn’t mean you’re some super stud either,” says Dinesh petulantly. “You haven’t even seen her again.”

Monica is pleased to hear that the blonde is indeed out of the picture.

Gilfoyle reaches down the back of his desk to pull up a cable that has fallen off. “I’m still looking forward to winning that bet, Muhammad Ali.”

“Oh yeah, speaking about Mohammads,” says Dinesh, unfazed. “Your friend the pen tester is in town and coming to see us this morning.”

Gilfoyle immediately drops the HDMI cable and straightens up. “What?”

“He said he has a thing to attend in San Francisco tonight so he’s coming to see us today.” Dinesh gives Gilfoyle a sly look. “What, you’re not pleased to see your old MIT friend N. Mohammad Reza? Did you call him a sand-dwelling towelhead too, back in the day?”

Monica isn’t supposed to be eavesdropping, but she’s doing payroll which is the most boring stupid fucking thing in the world. She can’t wait for the new accountant to start next month.

“You mean you actually had a friend at college, Gilfoyle?” she asks innocently. “A friend called Mohammad?”

Gilfoyle glares at her and then at Dinesh. “We worked on a security-related project together once and stayed in touch.”

“What time is he coming?” asks Monica, because she has some interviews to conduct but doesn’t want to miss this mysterious friend of Gilfoyle’s.

“Some time before lun—Jesus Christ,” says Dinesh suddenly, looking at the entrance. “Who the fuck is that?”

Following his gaze, Monica sees their new receptionist talking to a woman in a colourful summer dress. She’s wearing leggings and a long-sleeved black top under the dress. Her makeup is impeccable, her heavy eyebrows shaped into perfect arches and her long nails professionally manicured. A pair of sunglasses is neatly perched on top of the tight black hijab encircling her head. 

“Gilfoyle!” exclaims the woman when she sees him. “How’s it hanging, you Satanic son of a bitch?”

Gilfoyle rolls his eyes and walks over to meet her halfway. She flings her arms around him and he awkwardly pats her on the back. Monica watches them with bemusement.

“I’m guessing that’s your N. Mohammad Reza,” she says to Dinesh, torn between her intense curiosity at Gilfoyle’s old friend being a hijabi woman, and discomfort at seeing her casual fling with his arms around someone else.

Dinesh stands up when Gilfoyle and the woman come over. “Uh, hi, I’m Dinesh.”

“Pleased to meet you in person, Dinesh! It’s always good to put a face to a name.” The woman holds out her hand and Dinesh stares at it as if it’s going to bite him before shaking it weakly. “I realize I’m not the face you were expecting behind _my_ name, am I right?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, no,” says Dinesh.

“It always messes with people’s heads when they’re expecting some dude and they get me, all wrapped up like a nun. I like messing with people,” says the woman seriously. There is a hint of a foreign accent when she speaks, but she otherwise sounds American. “Dinesh is an Indian name, right?” 

“Uh, yes, I’m Indian,” says Dinesh, who is doing a good impression of a deer in headlights.

Gilfoyle’s eyes narrow with amusement, though he doesn’t say anything, no doubt filing that away for maximum effect later.

“This is Monica, our CFO,” says Dinesh to change the subject.

“Pleased to meet you,” says the woman. “I’m N. Mohammad Reza. Like M. Night Shyamalan, expect Iranian and completely different. You can call me Negar. Pronounced Neh-GAR. Not like an offensive English word.”

“It means ‘beloved’ in Farsi,” explains Gilfoyle neutrally. 

“Beloved?” repeats Monica.

“In Farsi?” says Dinesh.

Negar puts her laptop bag on the empty desk between Dinesh and Monica. “I ran penetration tests the other week to see what dangers these bozos are unleashing with their new-fangled distributed Internet,” she explains for Monica’s benefit. “I’m glad I got back in touch with my old friend here after I saw that Bloomberg interview. I could tell you guys needed help if you put him in charge.”

Gilfoyle gives a rueful shrug. “We were doing fine.”

“You met Gilfoyle at MIT?” asks Monica, hoping the woman will take that as a cue to tell them more about this unexpected friendship.

“Oh yes, we go way back. We used to live together.” 

“You lived together,” repeats Dinesh. “You and Gilfoyle.”

Negar grins at him. “Yes. We used to spend entire nights working on projects together. We came this close to starting a second Iranian revolution, you know.”

“So that’s true about the Iranian revolution?” asks Dinesh, wide-eyed. “I always thought he was just bullshitting.”

“Safe assumption. He’s always bullshitting about something,” says Negar with a twinkle in her dark eyes. “But the revolution thing is true. We might even have made it if this yellow-livered moose-fucker hadn’t chickened out. Something about preferring his balls without electrodes attached to them.”

“I’m funny like that,” says Gilfoyle neutrally. He narrows his eyes at Negar. “I’m so glad you came here to share all this in my workplace, with my work colleagues.”

“Oh, am I embarrassing you in your workplace, in front of your work colleagues?” she says with a laugh. “Look at you, Mr. Grown-up Chief Systems Architect, telling Emily Chang all about cryptocurrency. Like you know anything about that.” 

“I actually–” starts Gilfoyle, but Negar looks at Richard’s office and interrupts him.

“Is that Richard Hendricks?” she asks. Richard and Jared are deep in conversation in the office. “Can I meet him? You know, your network could work great in a country like Iran. My family back there are always complaining about the shit broadband and the censorship. There might be a business opportunity there.”

Monica thinks about Tammy, the NSA agent who contacted them a couple of weeks ago, and wonders what she would make of Pied Piper striking a deal with someone from Iran. She thinks CFIUS might have something to say about that as well.

Richard and Jared are frowning intently at something on Richard’s laptop, and they look up with irritation when Gilfoyle walks into the office without warning. Their expressions turn to interest when he introduces Negar, however; Jared’s face lights up with the kind of look he gets when he sees an opportunity to be Woke and an Ally to Women. Monica knows he means well but is pleased to see that look aimed at someone else than herself for once. 

Gilfoyle leaves Negar talking to Richard and comes back to the bank of desks outside. He stands opposite Dinesh’s desk for a moment, arms folded.

“‘I’m Indian?’” he says finally.

“I panicked, okay?” says Dinesh defensively. “You don’t understand what it was like, growing up in a religious family in Pakistan. Any time you tried to talk to them, the girls would pull their dupatta over their faces and _giggle_.” He gestures as if pulling a loose scarf across his face. 

“Yeah, I’m sure the men are the ones who are oppressed in that situation,” says Monica.

“I didn’t even shake a woman’s hand until I was 17!” adds Dinesh.

“Ah yes, the postman-lady,” says Gilfoyle with an evil glint in his eye that makes him look kinda sexy. “Hey, Priyanka, Dinesh is considering a conversion to Sikhism because Muslim girls were mean to him when he was a kid. Got any advice for him?”

Priyanka barely glances up from her workstation. “Yeah. Stick to Atheism. You wouldn’t like the hair.” 

“I might not know a great deal about the Muslim world,” says Gilfoyle evenly, “but I think I can safely guess that Muslim girls aren’t different from any other girl across the globe. It seems far more likely that the giggling was simply the common disinterest any girl feels when confronted with some bespectacled geek with greasy hair.”

Monica leans back in her chair and grins. “Speaking from experience, Gilfoyle?”

“Actually, I was very popular,” says Dinesh because he apparently always walks into these things. “I had excellent grades and promising prospects! The girls loved me! They didn’t mind the glasses at all. They made me look clever.”

“Yeah, that’s just what your mom told you. And that’s why you had laser eye surgery as soon as you got your first pay check.” Gilfoyle smirks at Dinesh. “Anyway, the truth is you don’t want Negar to know you’re _haram_ as fuck and I respect that. I’ll buy you a bacon sandwich for lunch to cheer you up.”

* * * * *

After her meeting with Richard, Negar comes to sit at the desk beside Monica’s. Gilfoyle and Dinesh sit down on either side of her as she shows them something on her laptop. Every now and then, she laughs at something one of them says, or she says something funny and Dinesh laughs while Gilfoyle’s eyes narrow in amusement, a rare crack in his impassible facade. Monica wonders if it’s possible that they might have dated back in the day.

After about half an hour, Priyanka approaches the row of desks from the front to tell Dinesh that their next interview candidate is here.

“Who the fuck turns up nearly an hour early for an interview?” grumbles Dinesh, disconnecting his laptop from its peripherals.

“Gabriel Aristopoulos, apparently,” says Priyanka, checking the interview schedule on her phone. “Is he the one who aced the coding test but used ‘gabe’ as a variable name?”

“Yeah.” Dinesh shakes his head. “Fucking Gabe. Who the fuck uses their own name as a variable name?”

“The kind of guy who turns up an hour early for an interview,” says Gilfoyle with amusement. 

Priyanka sighs as Dinesh joins her with his laptop. “Maybe his interview will be really shit and we won’t have to take him.”

“Are you doing a lot of recruiting these days?” asks Negar, watching them join the candidate at the entrance.

Gilfoyle grunts. “Yes. We’re recruiting alright. What did we budget for?” he asks Monica. 

“Hmm, I think the planned engineering headcount is something like a hundred in total,” she says. “We’ve sent out twenty offers so far; that’s about half the candidates that have been interviewed.”

“Wow, I’m not surprised Dinesh was complaining to me online that he’s getting nothing done,” says Negar.

Monica gives Gilfoyle a suspicious look. “He does seem to be doing most of the interviewing.”

“I have better things to do with my time than talk to an endless stream of Gabes, each with his or her own little annoying quirks. It’s bad enough to have to deal with humans at all, let alone dozens of them, all lying to get a job.”

“I see your opinion of the human race hasn’t improved,” says Negar. 

“My opinion of the human race goes down from year to year. Everyone lies and cheats and tries to stamp on others as they scramble to help themselves. They destroy the environment, victimize ethnic and social groups they don’t belong to, and whine endlessly about their own sense of entitlement.”

“Ah, is that a hint of bleeding-heart environmentalism I detect there?” says Negar teasingly. “You’ve come a long way from your white trash roots.”

“The fuck I have,” grumbles Gilfoyle. “There’s overwhelming evidence that this planet would be better off if we all went to live off the land.”

“Like you could live off the land,” says Monica with amusement. “You wouldn’t have any internet, you know. You’d get withdrawal symptoms as soon as you couldn’t get into GitHub.”

“Anytime you want to try it, come with me to Iran,” suggests Negar. “The broadband there is like old school dialup, especially for foreign sites. Two-factor authentication in GitHub is virtually impossible to time right.”

“I imagine living on the land is a scenario where I wouldn’t need GitHub anymore,” says Gilfoyle. “Unlike most people in this room, I am capable of wiring up a generator. I would be able to run plumbing and sewage from my cabin, hunt if I have to and chop wood for heating.”

Negar nods gravely. “Ah, so that’s it. I was thinking the beard was either because you’re joining the ranks of the Faithful—” She points at her headscarf. “—or you’re planning to become a lumberjack.”

“Oh, yeah, he’s definitely aiming for the lumberjack job,” agrees Monica with an emphatic nod. “Must be his Canadian roots coming out.”

Gilfoyle gives her a dark glare that is both hot and hilarious. Negar gives Gilfoyle a tender look, but then starts talking about trace logging and packet sniffing, whatever the fuck that is. Monica puts her headphones on to drown them out.

During a quiet passage in Spotify’s This is Natalie Merchant, though, she realizes their topic of conversation has changed.

“I mean, Tara’s a nice girl, but I’ve never put much stock in long-distance relationships,” Negar is saying.

Gilfoyle grunts noncommittally, either because he’s aware Monica might be listening, or simply because he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I’ve got to say, you’ve really changed,” continues Negar with undisguised admiration. “I never thought there was a handsome man hiding in that scrawny scarecrow, but you’ve filled out nicely. The beard really suits you.”

Gilfoyle hesitates but then gives her a polite nod of the head. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t you come to the vernissage this evening?” Negar squeezes his hand with a familiarity that douses Monica in metaphorical cold water. “We can catch up.”

“Okay,” says Gilfoyle neutrally.

* * * * *

“And then they arranged to meet at a gallery in San Francisco! A gallery! I mean, what the fuck? Since when does Gilfoyle go to art galleries?”

“I have no idea,” says Dawn shortly. Her son Toby is squealing in the background as she speaks on the phone. “I’ve never met this guy.”

Monica angrily exhales a cloud of smoke out of the window; smoking indoors is reserved for her sessions with Gilfoyle.

“I should go over there and give him a piece of my mind,” she says with irritation. “Ask him what the hell he’s playing at. First with that woman in red and then this Iranian woman he used to live with. I should go there and confront him.”

“If you were living in a soap opera, sure,” says Dawn. “Or you could call him and talk it over like an adult because—”

“Just a minute,” interrupts Monica as her doorbell rings.

For one crazy minute, she hopes it might be Gilfoyle. But it turns out to be Mrs. Radowski from upstairs, asking to borrow some sugar. Monica lends her the bag of sugar she keeps for guests—she doesn’t use much herself—and returns to her conversation with Dawn.

“Sorry, Dawn, that was Mrs. Radowski borrowing my sugar. Look, I’m not calling Gilfoyle like some fucking lovelorn teenager,” she says impatiently. “I don’t care that much!”

“You care enough to want to go all the way to some art gallery in San Francisco. Look, you need to decide what you want from this guy.”

“I don’t want anything,” says Monica defensively. “It’s just a casual thing.”

“Right, an ‘open, hedonistic’ relationship,” says Dawn. “I call bullshit on that. It sounds to me like you actually want some commitment from him. If so, you need to tell him, and see if he feels strongly enough about you to—”

“Ah, shit, that must be Mrs. Radowski again.”

Except when Monica answers the doorbell, it isn’t.

“Uh, I’ll call you back later, Dawn,” she says, and hangs up.

She stares at Gilfoyle, who is standing in her doorway and looking as if he’s not sure what he’s doing there. He’s wearing a jacket over a black top she’s seen him wear before; its darkness emphasizes the pale skin of his thick neck below the beard.

“I’m going to an art gallery,” he says gruffly. “You wanna come with me?” He waves vaguely at the stairs outside her condo. “I brought the Volvo, not the Outrider. So, you know.”

Monica frowns. “I thought you were meeting Negar there?”

“Yeah. Her husband has a piece in the exhibition.” 

“Her husband. Oh. I thought—never mind.”

Gilfoyle smirks as if he knows exactly what Monica thought. “I used to live with them both. Anyway, it’s an exhibition on ‘modern expressions of Muslim artists in America.’ There won’t be anyone we know there and you’re the only person I know who might find it interesting.”

Monica decides not to say that she knows fuck all about art beyond it being a sound financial investment and that she hated pretty much everything Laurie found worth acquiring.

“Also Dinesh is at the gym,” he adds, as if he’d ever take Dinesh to an art gallery.

“Oh well, if you really don’t want to go there on your own, I guess I _could_ come,” says Monica, putting on a tone of reluctance that doesn’t seem to fool Gilfoyle. 

“Okay, I’ll take you,” he says with a sly smile. “Since you don’t have anything better to do tonight.”

“Give me a minute to get changed,” she says. “But I’m driving. We’re not going there in your shitmobile!”


	10. Loose Coupling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely coupled systems are ones which do not rely on the other system being available in order to be operational, even if they do need it in order to be fully functional.

“So Negar is married,” says Monica as they enter the exhibition.

Gilfoyle inclines his head. “Yeah. She’s only in town for her husband’s vernissage then they’re off to L.A. for business.”

“How did you meet them, exactly? Were you roommates in college or something?”

“Kind of. I was living in the Volvo so they let me crash at their place for a while.” He narrows his eyes when Monica stares at him, and adds, “I was having cash flow problems.”

“Right. And what’s your excuse for still living at Erlich’s place now?”

“Newell Road is okay.” He doesn’t elaborate on this debatable declaration; he’s looking at a point beyond Monica. “I think that might be Nabil’s painting right there.”

“I think you might be right,” says Monica when she turns around to follow his gaze.

They approach the painting together and observe it in silence for a moment.

“That’s quite a statement,” says Monica finally.

“Yes,” agrees Gilfoyle.

“Hi! So glad you could make it!”

Negar is approaching them through the handful of people in the gallery. An unassuming-looking man with balding hair and a neat gray beard is following her. Negar throws her arms around Gilfoyle just as she did in the office earlier. Gilfoyle looks mildly embarrassed when Negar’s husband does the same.

“This is Monica. We work together,” says Gilfoyle when the man looks at her with curiosity.

“Pleased to meet you, Monica,” says the man politely. “I’m Nabil.”

“He’s the other N. Mohammad Reza in the family,” explains Negar. “So, what do you think of the painting? Pretty rad, huh?”

“Uh, it makes quite a statement?” says Monica hesitantly.

Though she’s no expert, she thinks the painting is not, objectively speaking, particularly good, but it depicts a woman who is clearly supposed to be Negar. Her head is wrapped in a grey scarf much like the one she’s wearing right now, but she’s in a stars and stripes bikini, and carrying a Kalashnikov. Dark hairs are visible around the bikini bottom and under her arms.

“Yes! It is a statement subverting the expectations of womanhood,” says Nabil. His accent is much thicker than Negar’s and he speaks with emphatic sweeping gestures. “Expected to cover up or reveal all, to remove all her body hair, to be kind and nurturing. I saw this photograph of a girl in that bikini with that gun on a pro-Trump forum, and I just knew I had to subvert it.”

Negar points at the half-naked torso. “He basically painted my head onto her body.”

“That explains the boob job,” says Gilfoyle neutrally. 

“It’s definitely an ... unusual depiction of a hijabi woman.” Monica hopes that isn’t a White Feminist thing to say.

“You obviously haven’t been on PornHub lately,” says Negar with a chuckle. “But fuck people’s expectations, right? I’m not letting the shit I get here stop me from wearing my hijab. And if I lived in Iran, I’d be out there with my Girls of Enghelab Street sisters across the country, standing on street corners and waving my scarf in protest at the compulsory hijab. This piece is the personification of our struggles as women wherever we are.” 

“It’s called ‘Death to the Patriarchy,’” says Nabil, nodding earnestly.

“Makes a change from ‘Death to America,’” comments Gilfoyle dryly.

“Like no Canadian has ever thought that at least once,” says Monica with amusement.

Nabil grins at Gilfoyle and gives him a friendly punch on the arm. “I see you have not changed. Always with the bad jokes. I was so happy when Negar talked with you after we watched your interview on Bloomberg. It’s so good to see you again, Gilfoyle! And meet your lovely work person.”

Monica smiles neutrally and tries to look like Gilfoyle’s lovely work person, rather than Gilfoyle’s lovely—whatever she is to him.

“The money for the pen test was nice too,” says Negar in mock seriousness. “I had a hunch Pied Piper would be needing my professional services if you were its Chief Architect.” 

Gilfoyle gives her a dark look. “Any shit code you might have seen is entirely Dinesh’s work.”

“Aw, blaming someone else,” says Negar indulgently. “How very cis white male of you.”

“That’s how we conquered the world,” Gilfoyle says without missing a beat.

Monica nods. “Right. I always think of conquerors when I think of Canada.”

Gilfoyle chuckles and gives her an unusually guileless smile. There’s a hair sticking out of his beard; she feels an inexplicable impulse to smooth it, but resists the temptation.

Nabil interrupts the moment by nudging Monica. She doesn’t like being nudged but decides she can allow a man whose work is entitled ‘Death to the Patriarchy’ some leeway.

“You know, I almost did not recognize him on Bloomberg,” says Nabil. “He was like a rake and with no beard when we knew him.” He grins at Gilfoyle. “Now you look like Jesus.”

“The irony,” comments Monica, though she wonders what Gilfoyle looked like without a beard.

Negar laughs. “Must be that choir boy upbringing coming out in spite of everything. I see you still list yourself as a Satanist on LinkedIn.” She looks at Monica. “Does he still have those awful tattoos?”

“Oh, um—” 

Monica tries to decide if she would know that he has the tattoos if she wasn’t fucking him. Then she remembers the time the air-conditioning broke down and he was showing them to everyone in the office. But if she answers yes without explaining what happened that time, they’ll just assume she’s fucking him. Which she is, of course, but it’s not something she wants Negar to tell Dinesh, for example.

“Why would I remove my tattoos?” asks Gilfoyle, unwittingly saving her from finding something to say. “Like you, I stand by my beliefs.”

“Ah, of course. That is why you still live in the Great Satan despite your long hatred of capitalism,” says Nabil lightly. “He used to tell us a lot about his hatred of capitalism.”

“How did you all meet anyway?” asks Monica. “You were roommates at college?”

“Yes,” says Gilfoyle shortly.

“Kind of,” says Negar. “I was a TA in the Computing faculty and he was a grad student, but we didn’t cross paths in lessons at all. We actually met on campus.”

“Yes, well, Monica, I think we should—” starts Gilfoyle.

Negar ignores him. “I was going to a lecture and this guy came up to me and started ranting. You know, terrorism, 9/11, the usual crap, and he tried to pull my hijab off.”

Monica’s stomach does an unpleasant flip; she’s always been uncomfortable about his racist jokes, but surely Gilfoyle would never actually attack someone. Gilfoyle’s expression is reasonably neutral, but Monica can see he’s pursing his lips in what is quite possibly embarrassment as Negar continues. 

“So I’m there trying to decide if I should poke him in the eye or knee him in the groin, when this other guy—” She jerks her thumb at Gilfoyle. “—comes out of nowhere and starts yelling at him to stop.”

Oh. That makes more sense, thinks Monica. Except this is _Gilfoyle_ they’re talking about.

“The guy must have been on drugs because if I had some six-foot metalhead yelling at me, I’d leg it, but instead, he threw a punch and my hero went down like a stone.”

“He broke my glasses,” grumbles Gilfoyle, whose cheeks look a little red above his beard. He doesn’t meet Monica’s eye as Negar continues her story.

“Well, at this point, the guy probably thought he’d get into trouble for hitting some white guy and ran off, and I had to spend the rest of the afternoon finding an optician because Mister Magoo here can’t see without his glasses.”

Gilfoyle says nothing but inhales deeply and lets the breath out slowly through his nostrils. 

“Some hero,” says Monica, though she smiles at Gilfoyle; his lips curve into a grudging smile when he meets her gaze. “So you let him stay with you out of gratitude?”

“Kind of. He was living in his car at the time, so we invited him to stay with us for a few months,” explains Nabil. “He was having cash flow problems.”

“My landlord threw me out because he said Bitcoin wasn’t real money,” grumbles Gilfoyle.

“Oh, sorry,” says Nabil, looking at someone behind Monica. “Negar, we must talk to Walid before he goes.”

Negar acknowledges this with a nod. “Gallery owner. There’s a buffet next door,” she tells Gilfoyle and Monica. “We’ll catch you later!”

* * * * *

“So you’re not such a terrible racist after all,” says Monica with grudging admiration as she picks food from the buffet.

“Yes, I am,” growls Gilfoyle. “We all are. The first thing anyone notices about someone else is every difference they have. Skin color, religious beliefs, age, gender, political affiliation. We instinctively use all of these as markers to categorize others as ‘like me’ and ‘not like me.’”

“Like the hotdogs.” The theory sounds familiar and Monica stares at Gilfoyle. “That’s what they said on the Diversity Training Laurie sent me to! You’ve been on Diversity Training.”

“No, I watched a—It doesn’t matter,” says Gilfoyle gruffly, rather than admit he’s been willingly seeking out Diversity Training material. “The point is, unlike other people, I don’t try to hide the truth about what I see. I don’t care if people think I’m a racist. We’re all racist. So are you.”

“Thanks,” says Monica sarcastically. She decides that saying her best friend is an African-American from Georgia probably wouldn’t contribute much to this conversation. Dawn isn’t some token to boost Monica’s anti-racist credentials. “So you’re a racist. But you don’t hate Muslims.”

“Yes, I do. I hate everyone equally,” says Gilfoyle seriously. “All humans are flawed, prejudiced and selfish. All religions are fairy tales invented to give the unscrupulous power over the gullible. Islam, Sikhism, Buddhism, Christianity. They all proclaim lofty ideals in the name of imaginary deities to justify the oppression of those who are different and manipulate those who are weak.”

“They also bring comfort to those who believe,” says Monica. “The belief that there is some greater purpose; that what you do actually matters and you’re not just some animal struggling alone in a world without meaning. And I’m not a great believer, but our priest helped us a lot when my father died.”

Gilfoyle shrugs. “I’m not saying believers are not sincere. Just deluded. Worshipping a thinly-disguised Earth Goddess and confessing every natural urge to some drunken old Irishman who probably gets off on it doesn’t bring you any closer to a nonexistent deity than staying the fuck at home to play videogames.”

“Is that what you did when you were a choir boy?” asks Monica innocently. She didn’t miss Negar’s remark earlier and she has a feeling she knows which faith was Gilfoyle’s introduction to religion.

There’s a beat before Gilfoyle gives her one of his shy smiles. “I was too ugly to be a choir boy. My mother said I looked like a baby baboon with glasses.”

Monica wrinkles her nose, unsure whether to laugh at that or commiserate with him. “She sounds nice.”

“Yeah. She’s a bitch,” says Gilfoyle, though there’s a hint of amusement in his brown eyes when he adds, “but she wasn’t wrong.”

Monica folds her arms with satisfaction. “Well, at least now I know why you hate religion so much. You’re a Catholic!”

“There’s no need to insult me. I’m a Satanist!” exclaims Gilfoyle with horror.

“Right.” Monica nods. “And you’re also a racist misanthropist who saves random veiled women from islamophobic thugs. I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t do it to impress you.”

“I’m still impressed,” insists Monica. “Maybe you have a heart after all.” 

Gilfoyle glares at her as if she said he doesn’t know how to code, but just grunts with irritation.

“So why do you make so many Muslim jokes about Dinesh if you don’t actually have a problem with Muslims?” continues Monica. “You don’t make Christian jokes about Richard.”

“They’re not Muslim jokes. They’re Dinesh jokes. American Atheist who lies to his parents about keeping his faith jokes,” points out Gilfoyle. “I make jokes about him being an Arab or a terrorist because those are obviously not true. I find Islam as distasteful as Christianity, and for much the same reasons, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect Negar’s beliefs. Or Dinesh’s lack of belief. But Dinesh is dishonest about his beliefs, just as he’s dishonest about his wealth, his looks, or his interest in culture. All because he’s too insecure and vain to accept that there’s nothing wrong with who he is.”

“Oh, so you do like him,” says Monica with delight.

Gilfoyle looks down at his plate. “No,” he retorts unconvincingly.

“Well, I still think you should lay off the Muslim jokes. I’m probably not the only one who feels uncomfortable about them. There are other Muslims in the office, you know.”

Gilfoyle frowns but looks thoughtful. “Yeah. Maybe they’ve worn a little thin,” he admits. “And there’s plenty of other untapped material there. I think I can probably stop.”

“Thank you.”

“Again. Not doing it for you,” he says dryly. He hands her his half empty plate. “Here. I’m hitting the head. See you in a minute.”

Monica glares at his retreating back. She goes to find a suitable place to put the plates and takes a quick look at some of the other art in the gallery. She is looking at a pretty mosaic inspired by non-figurative Islamic art and trying to decide if she likes it enough to buy it when Negar comes to join her again. Nabil is apparently still cozying up to the gallery owner.

Negar gives Monica some background to the work she’s admiring, but after a couple of minutes, Monica changes the subject.

“While Gilfoyle isn’t around,” she starts in a conspiratorial tone. “What’s the guys’ code like? I mean really. You know, everyone tells me Richard is a genius, and he thinks Gilfoyle is amazing and Dinesh is—um, competent too, I guess. But I don’t know if any of that is true.”

“The purpose of a penetration test is to compromise the system from the outside, the way a hacker would,” explains Negar. “So I didn’t look at their code. All I can tell you is that their systems are reasonably secure, but like all peer to peer systems, all it would take is a rogue agent with sufficient access within the network and they could be in trouble. I recommended that they improve logging and monitoring around their developer partners and their users, but Richard seemed to have a problem with that. I understand his privacy concerns but security is always a balancing act between protecting the privacy of the innocent and tracking the misdeeds of the guilty. But as far as external threats are concerned, they only have a couple gaps to plug and then they’re solid.”

“Oh, good,” says Monica, though she kind of wishes she hadn’t asked now. “I sometimes wonder. You know, not being technical, it’s hard to tell if Gilfoyle is actually talented or bullshitting about his abilities.”

“I think it’s a bit of both.” 

Negar lets a beat go by and then observes Monica with a smile. 

“How long have you two been together? You and Gilfoyle.”

“Oh, we’re not— I mean, Dinesh was at the gym, so Gilfoyle just thought—” 

Negar stares at her. Monica sighs. 

“Okay. A couple months. It’s nothing serious, though. Just—having fun! It’s not like he ever sleeps over or anything.”

“Right.” Negar nods. 

“I mean, he’s just split up from his long-term girlfriend and I’ve been single for a while, so it’s just a casual thing, you know. Just finding our feet again.”

“Right,” says Negar again. “Yes, I know he split up with Tara. She’s a friend of mine,” she explains. “I guess I kind of introduced them.”

“Oh.” Monica wonders if it’s a good idea to discuss Gilfoyle with someone who is friends with his ex. “I mean, I guess it worked out for a while. They were together a long time.”

“For some definition of ‘together’, sure,” says Negar, helping herself to a glass of apple juice. “Tara’s a nice girl, but I think they should have split up a long time ago. I kind of felt she was going through the motions and pretending everything was okay to not hurt his feelings. I’m glad he’s got someone else. You seem more—sensible. Level-headed.”

“Yeah, sensible and level-headed is definitely me,” says Monica with an emphatic nod, pleased by the description.

Negar smiles. “You know, he’s a nice guy, deep down inside. Under all the posturing.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Monica, because she realizes that she does know that. For all the bluster, his loyalty to Pied Piper says something about his character. “I mean, he can be a real dick sometimes too.”

“Yes, that too,” agrees Negar.

“But he’s loyal to his friends.” She tries to think what she likes about him. “He’s funny. And kinda hot, obviously.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess he’s improved with age,” says Negar, though she doesn’t sound convinced.

Monica chuckles; she knows Gilfoyle is an acquired taste. She sees him coming heading toward them out of the corner of her eye and turns to smile at him brightly.

That immediately puts him on guard and he looks from one woman to the other suspiciously when he joins them.

“Great. You’re here together. Talking.”

“Yes,” says Monica. “And yes, we’re talking about you.”

“Women do have other topics of conversation than the men in their lives,” says Negar, “but on this occasion, yes. We were discussing what a dick you are.” She turns to give Monica a grin. “I don’t know what you and his other girlfriends see in him, to be honest.”

“I’m amazing in bed,” says Gilfoyle seriously. “Also I’m funny and I have great earning potential.”

Monica nods. “Earning potential. Yeah, that was the bit I forgot.”

She turns to look at him; though his tone is deadpan as usual, his eyes are narrowed by a pleased smile. He meets her gaze and suddenly takes her hand. He gives it a gentle squeeze as he turns to address Negar again.

“I take it Nabil gave up trying to compete with you and has decided to leave the technology sector altogether.”

“Yeah, he thought about switching to software engineering but to be honest, he never really grasped object-oriented programming,” says Negar with a laugh. “But the business is going well. There’s a lot of money in security, you know.”

“Given how everyone fucks it up, I’m not surprised,” comments Gilfoyle. It’s kind of funny to see him being his usual snarky self while he’s holding Monica’s hand like a prom date. “I’d make a killing if I put my mind to it.”

“Except you already have a job,” Monica reminds him.

“Except I already have a job,” repeats Gilfoyle with a nod.

Negar laughs. “Well maybe some day when you don’t have a job. I mean, of course Pied Piper is going to be a great success. But if you ever get tired of all the winning, you give me a call.” Her expression softens and she gives Gilfoyle s tender look. “In fact, just give me a call anyway.”

“Not in a million years,” says Gilfoyle, before missing a beat. “But I might text you.”

Negar glances at Nabil who is still in conversation with the gallery owner. “I better rescue Walid before Nabil keeps him there all night. We have to go back to the hotel anyway. We have to leave for L.A. at a stupid time tomorrow morning.”

Monica pulls out her phone—awkwardly, with her left hand, because Gilfoyle is holding the right one. “Oh, yeah. We’d better go too. I have an interview to conduct at 9:00 AM tomorrow.”

“That’s a stupid time for an interview,” says Gilfoyle.

“For an engineer, maybe. Accountants are morning people.” Monica smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll drive you back to your car. Maybe you’ll have time to play a game with Dinesh all night or whatever the fuck you do that makes you come into work at ten or eleven.”

“Hmm, I do have an ongoing debate to continue on Reddit about the use of security frameworks in Open Source software,” says Gilfoyle with mock gravity.

“Atta boy. You tell them they’re wrong for me,” says Negar with amusement. “Well it was good to see you again and a pleasure meeting you, Monica.”

“Hey, likewise.” 

Negar gives Gilfoyle a hug. “I’m glad things are going well. You have a great girlfriend.”

“He sure does,” agrees Monica.

“Debatable,” says Gilfoyle in his usual deadpan tone, though he’s still holding Monica’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find out more about [Girls of Enghelab hijab protests in Iran](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2017%E2%80%9319_Iranian_protests_against_compulsory_hijab) on Wikipedia.


	11. Actionable Analytics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gilfoyle and Monica settle into a new routine as Pied Piper moves into the new office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actionable Analytics is a fancy way of saying you're analysing data which leads to a company taking some sort of concrete action.

The familiar buzz of the phone on Monica’s bedside table rings out as the precursor to the full alarm, invading her forgettable dream and pulling her to wakefulness. She fumbles for the button to silence it and stretches slowly, giving herself time to wake up before starting her usual morning routine and another busy day at work.

Except this isn’t quite a normal morning.

“What the fuck time is it?” grumbles the shape lying under the covers beside her.

“It’s 7 am. Time to get up.”

“No, it isn’t. That’s the middle of the fucking night!”

He doesn’t even bother to lift his head from the bed covers; all she can see in the semi-darkness is a bushy tuft of dark hair. 

“I told you I had an interview to conduct at 9,” says Monica, now wishing she hadn’t invited him in last night.

She sits up and realizes that she’s still naked. She wonders if it’s worth finding an item of clothing in the pile on the floor. She expects Gilfoyle to go back to sleep, but instead, he turns towards her and props himself up on one arm in the semi-darkness.

“Guess I fell asleep last night,” he says sheepishly.

“Yeah.”

She did consider kicking him out of bed and sending him home a few hours ago, but they were locked in a lazy, warm embrace at the time, and she dozed off shortly after he did. It’s the first time they’ve actually slept together, or indeed seen each other on a weeknight, let alone early morning. Monica thinks it’s going to be a little weird to be seeing each other at work in a few hours.

Gilfoyle snuggles closer and slips his arm around her waist. “You have two hours before you have to be at work. You don’t have to get up right now,” he says drowsily.

“Yeah, I do,” she says, though she doesn’t move. He does feel pleasantly warm against her naked skin. “This is when I normally get up.”

“It only takes twenty minutes to get to work from here. The fuck do you do with the rest of the time?”

“Shower, get dressed, have breakfast,”

“For one and a half hours?” Gilfoyle makes a derisive noise.

“You have no idea how much effort it is to get my hair that awesome!” says Monica, determined not to rise to the bait.

“Okay. If it means you have awesome hair, you can skip breakfast and have it at work. We have a great selection of cereal.” He kisses her shoulder. “I can think of better things you could be doing with your time.”

Monica doesn’t think having sex before going to work is such a good idea, except that Gilfoyle’s kissing her neck now and sliding his hand down her front.

“Hmm, it’ll take too long,” she protests, though she shifts her position to give him better access.

“Twenty minutes to get you off, then maybe five minutes of humping for me after that,” he says seriously, pressing up against her. “Plenty of time.”

“Five minutes, huh?” she says with amusement.

“I’m already horny, so with twenty minutes of foreplay? Yeah, I can easily cut it down to five minutes.”

Monica chuckles and shuffles down to lie on her back. “Okay, Usain Bolt, clock’s ticking. If we’re not done by 7:30, you’re not getting off.”

* * * * *

“I got a message from the fitters saying the main room will be ready by the end of next week, so we can move in straight after that. It might be best to give our notice for this office and start planning our move. What do you think, Monica?”

“Oh, uh— Sure.”

Startled from her thoughts, Monica stares at Jared and tries to remember what he’s talking about; she hopes she hasn’t agreed to anything expensive. A glance at the screen shows plans to move into the new office. Right, have to give notice on the current lease.

“I’ll get right on it after the meeting,” she assures him.

They’re having a mid-morning senior management meeting and she hasn’t been paying much attention. She soon realizes that Dinesh has been preoccupied by much the same thoughts as herself.

“Guys, do you think Gilfoyle is okay?” he asks.

Gilfoyle is missing from their meeting. Monica assumes that the asshole fell asleep again after their roll in the hay, and she is really pissed off. 

“He didn’t come home last night,” continues Dinesh. 

Great. Part of their strategy to avoid detection is to pretend that both of them are still single, and everyone is going to assume he got laid if he hasn’t been home. She really wishes she had kicked him out last night.

“Oh,” says Richard vaguely. “I didn’t notice. Did he go out last night?”

“He went to some gallery in San Francisco with that Iranian woman and I haven’t seen him since,” explains Dinesh.

“You think Negar kidnapped him?” asks Monica, feigning detached amusement.

Jared’s eyes widen. “Maybe she offered him a job! She was dropping heavy hints yesterday.”

“What, you think he’d drop Pied Piper for some job in Boston?” scoffs Monica, though she remembers that he didn’t seem exactly opposed to the idea when Negar suggested it. 

“Tara lives in Boston and Negar is a friend of hers,” says Dinesh. “Maybe they’re getting back together and he’s moving there!”

Monica has a moment’s misgiving as the plausibility of this scenario plays in her mind. But then she pulls herself together when she remembers what he was really doing.

“Jesus, he’s late one day and suddenly he’s leaving Pied Piper and moving to Boston?” she laughs.

“Yeah. He’s probably had a bong and passed out somewhere,” says Richard, with a furtive glance around the table as if to get everyone’s agreement. “I mean, it’s Gilfoyle. Who knows what the fuck he’s doing, right? Oh hey, talk of the devil. Or, huh, the archangel or something, I guess!”

He chuckles at his own joke—if you can call it that—while everyone else turns to watch Gilfoyle crash into the meeting room. He’s still wearing the same clothes as the evening before—thoroughly crumpled after a night on Monica’s living room floor—but has his laptop bag and the air of a man who has rushed home to get it.

“Glad you could make it, Gilfoyle,” says Richard sarcastically.

“So about the move to the new office—” starts Jared.

“Where the fuck have you been?” asks Dinesh, glaring at Gilfoyle. “You didn’t come home last night!”

“Dinesh, what have I told you about waiting up for me?” Gilfoyle drops into one of the chairs. “I do have more exciting things to do than hang out at Newell Road.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t need to know about your Satanist orgies, Gilfoyle,” says Richard with a forced laugh. “Not my cup of tea, that’s for sure.”

“Really?” Gilfoyle’s eyes narrow evilly. “You never know. You might enjoy a little swinging.”

“You kind of need to have a partner for it to be swinging,” quips Monica, amused at the thought of Richard at an orgy. “And no offense, but I can’t imagine any of you at an orgy.”

Which isn’t strictly true, of course, since she was observing Gilfoyle in the throes of passion just a few hours ago, eyes half-closed and lips parted as he moved above her. It’s not exactly difficult to imagine him doing that with someone else.

“Guys,” says Jared, pointing to his presentation. “If we could—”

“We know you were at an art gallery,” interrupts Dinesh. “And what were you doing there: starting a new revolution with your Iranian friend? Or did she offer you a job?”

“As a matter of fact, yeah, she did,” says Gilfoyle nonchalantly. He doesn’t tell them he turned it down, of course, the asshole.

“You know, good Muslim women aren’t supposed to talk to strange men,” says Dinesh accusingly.

Gilfoyle smirks at him. “Good thing her husband was there, then. Maybe you should have come along after all. You’d fit right in with the Morality Police, what with—” 

He suddenly interrupts himself, glances at Monica and then looks at Jared’s presentation as if he’s just noticed it. “The fuck? We’re moving to the fucking hangar already? I need to check the wi-fi coverage and order new servers before we move in!”

“Oh, don’t worry, I have it all mapped out on this Gantt chart,” says Jared proudly. “See, here you are, under ‘infrastructure setup’. I’ve allocated a whole week to setting stuff up and then another after people move in to ironing out the kinks.”

The chart does literally say “setting stuff up” and “ironing kinks out”, overlapping things like “move furniture” and “move tech equip.”

“There won’t be any kinks to iron out,” says Gilfoyle confidently. “Because I’ll do it slowly and make sure it’s done right first time.”

“Oh, in a ‘pushing straight to master’ way?” asks Dinesh in a tone that suggests this is a heinous crime.

Gilfoyle doesn’t retaliate with a barb, though he does give Dinesh the benefit of one of his evil glares. 

“Actually,” starts Jared. “I’ve allocated three more staff to help out, so you and your team can—

“No, there’s no ‘me and my team,’” interrupts Gilfoyle.

“It’s ‘my team and I,’” corrects Richard. 

Gilfoyle gives him a brief death stare before continuing. “I work alone. I don’t need some randos slowing me down. Dinesh can manage them. He always says he wants more responsibility.”

“If it comes with more money, sure,” says Dinesh.

“Yeah, about that,” says Monica. “We might want to hold off any pay rises for a little longer. Gates of Galloo might be growing exponentially, but so is our staff.”

“Well, actually, both their growth is kind of linear, not exponential,” says Richard.

Monica rolls her eyes because it’s not like she doesn’t know that. “Figure of speech, Richard.”

“Talking about staff, I got some good news today, Monica,” says Jared. “Tracy accepted our offer! I know you liked her.”

“Great!” Actually, Monica disliked her very much at the interview, but loved the idea of unleashing her on the herd of geeks. “New head of HR,” she adds for the benefit of those who don’t know.

“Gantt charts and a Head of HR,” scoffs Gilfoyle. “It’s like having fucking Jack Barker back.” He picks up his laptop bag and stands up. “Let me know when we all have to wear a little access card with our fucking name on it.”

Jared nods. “Oh yes, I cover our new security system in a couple of slides.”

“Uh, Gilfoyle, we weren’t—” starts Richard, but Gilfoyle just strides out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

Monica watches him go, fascinated and kinda proud of the way he just walks all over the rest of the guys. She still has misgivings about fucking a colleague, but at least she’s fucking the top alpha male in the company. 

* * * * *

With the office move monopolising their attention during the week, they go back to seeing each other on Saturday nights. They meet up at her place, sometimes get takeout, have sex and part company. Mindful that Dinesh might work out something is up, Monica doesn’t let Gilfoyle stay overnight. At least not very often. There are a couple of nights when they fall asleep together and Gilfoyle leaves early on Sunday morning.

At work, he is of course forbidden from talking to her in front of other people, sexting her when she’s in a meeting, DMing suggestive pictures to her on Slack, or visiting her in her glossy office. Monica is kind of surprised that Gilfoyle doesn’t complain about any of the rules as she gradually has to impose them. Maybe he realizes that she’s the one with a reputation to preserve. Or more likely, he’s just not that bothered as long as he’s getting laid.

So she’s a little surprised when she looks up from her morning cup of tea a few weeks after their move, only to find Gilfoyle watching her through the glass pane like some sinister gargoyle. She glares at him, but he comes in anyway.

“What are you doing?” she demands, keeping her voice down. The entire Accounting department is outside her office and she isn’t convinced that glass is great soundproofing. “I told you to stay away while we’re at work! Go back to your benighted corner downstairs and message me if you really need to.”

Given that she lets him bang her every weekend and all he has to do in exchange is stay the fuck away from her at work, she feels entitled to express a little irritation.

“Hmm, no,” says Gilfoyle. 

He sprawls out on the sofa by the door, knees unnecessarily wide and arms laid across the back as if taking up more physical space somehow asserts his dominance. Monica finds it both instinctively hot and intellectually dumb.

She notices he’s holding a sheet of paper but she can’t see what it is. Probably someone’s resume; the only thing anyone prints out these days is resumes so they can scribble on them in interviews. 

“I’ve been meaning to visit your fishbowl,” he continues conversationally. “I see it’s smaller than Richard’s but with the same bunker chic decor.”

Monica follows his gesture at the bare concrete walls. “I guess nothing says startup like a lack of soft furnishings. Now you’ve seen my office, maybe you can fuck off and let me get back to work?”

“I could,” he agrees. “Except your minion Bill or whatever his name is told me to come and see you in person.”

He holds out the paper he brought. Because he’s lounging on her sofa, Monica has to roll her chair out from behind her desk and lean over to grab it. Another fucking power move.

“Will sent you? Why the hell does he think I need to see—holy fuck!” she exclaims when she sees the figure on the quote he has just handed her. “Are we buying Amazon or something? What the hell is this?”

“It’s how much servers are going to cost that can keep up with Galloo’s growth rate.”

Monica frowns at him. “We run a peer-to-peer distributed network leveraging the cheap compute power of a large mesh of mobile devices. Our entire value proposition is that we make expensive servers obsolete. This is a quote for $290K’s worth of servers. What do we even need these big ass servers for?”

Gilfoyle sits there looking mildly discomfited, as if he didn’t think she’d question his explanation. “Not everything can run on a network of low-powered devices. Some applications need to scale vertically, not horizontally. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Listen, I’ve sat through enough yawn-inducing tech presentations by unwashed, scruffy nerds like you to know that ‘vertical’ scaling means spending fuckloads of money,” says Monica with irritation. “Usually on machines with enough RAM to replace a whole harddrive and a bunch of ridiculously powerful CPUs with stupid names like Xena and Lakeside.”

“Also known as Skylake-based Xeon processors,” Gilfoyle corrects laconically, though Monica thinks he does look a little impressed.

“Whatever,” she says impatiently. “I need to know what you’re going to be running on these things before I hand over a year’s salary to pay for them.”

Gilfoyle’s eyes narrow. “That’s nearly two years’ salary for me. Exactly how much are we paying you?”

Monica just folds her arms; he rolls his eyes.

“Fine. Negar said we should monitor our traffic more closely. Since doing that manually is difficult with Galloo’s thousands of users, I’m exploring the use of a machine learning algorithm based on that AI bot Laurie made us host last year. It will learn from our usual traffic to detect anomalies.”

Instincts honed over years of VC work make Monica’s heart beat a little faster at the magic words “machine learning” and “AI.” But then she remembers she is no longer a VC looking out for buzzwords to fund in the vague hope of recouping her investment before anyone discovers it’s vaporware. Also, there are a couple of other things wrong with this picture.

“Wait, the AI bot was dismantled and all its intellectual property now belongs to Laurie,” she says with a frown. “You gave it all back.”

“Yes,” says Gilfoyle in his usual deadpan voice. “Because of course signing some contract makes software magically disappear from the network of several hundred phones where it’s been replicated.”

Monica winces. “Okay, let’s pretend you didn’t just admit to stealing IP that Bream-Hall liquidated several months ago.”

“Okay. We’re good at pretending things aren’t happening,” says Gilfoyle, and it’s hard to tell if this is a passive-aggressive comment on their relationship or a general observation about Pied Piper’s occasionally creative approach to the truth. “And to cut to the chase before you ask your next question: using Amazon or Azure for the processing power I need during my experiments would be far less cost effective than buying the hardware upfront and letting me install and maintain it at no extra cost to the company.”

Monica _has_ heard that argument before, so she’s inclined to believe he’s not lying. Still, it’s a lot of money and it’s not as if Pied Piper isn’t already hemorrhaging Galloo’s revenue on stupidly expensive Silicon Valley staff. Plus the fact that the payment break they’re getting on the aircraft hangar they now call home is going to expire in a few months.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she says cautiously, putting the quote on her desk with the intention of studying it later.

“You know, I think that modesty panel on your desk is large enough that I could kneel under there without anybody noticing,” he observes casually. “If you ever wanted some entertainment while you’re working.”

“Are you trying to bribe me with sexual favours?” asks Monica, amused and, okay, just a little turned on by the idea. She hopes nobody who can read lips is watching them through the glass,

Gilfoyle doesn’t get a chance to follow up on that because Richard suddenly bursts in, displaying all the familiar signs of his weekly panic attack about something; wide eyes, sweaty shirt and flailing arms.

“Monica, I need your help!” he declares. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Did Microsoft PowerPoint ask you if you wanted to save your slide deck again?” asks Gilfoyle.

“What? No!” Richard does a double-take when he notices Gilfoyle on the sofa, but then apparently sees the server quote on Monica’s desk, and returns to his current panic. “Testify wants me to Congress! Me! With Gavin Belson. And people from Microsoft and Google and Facebook!”

“They invited _you_ to testify?” asks Monica in confusion. “But we don’t do any of that shady shit that makes those companies fuckloads of money. Or have you reconsidered? I mean we _are_ only one game away from a cash flow crisis and—”

“No, no, Senator Shizaki says she wants me to go to prove there’s another way. To testify that a company can make money without collecting and selling user data.”

“Well, I mean, about the making money part—” starts Monica, because she often feels that Richard doesn’t understand just how much they depend on that unreliable asshole Colin and his Gates of fucking Galloo. 

“Me. Testifying in front of Congress. On national television!”

“Don’t worry, nobody watches that crap,” says Monica confidently. She knows this because she’s usually the only person in any given group who does watch C-SPAN. “And you can’t possibly be worse than Zuckerberg.”

“You say this after observing Richard in action for five years?” comments Gilfoyle.

“I’ll need to book a plane and a hotel and transportation and—”

“If only you had a personal assistant who could do that for you,” says Gilfoyle. “Also, Richard, can I buy new servers for my security experiments? Monica thinks the quote is too high.”

“Oh, uh, sure. Gilfoyle knows what he’s doing, Monica. I’m sure the servers are worth it. I better go find Holden!”

“Nice try, asshole, but he’ll have forgotten by tomorrow,” says Monica, patting the quote after Richard has left. “So I’m just gonna get a second opinion on this quote and think about it. I’ll let you know. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have work to do.”

Gilfoyle purses his lips in irritation but doesn’t move. “Actually, there is—” 

“Gilfoyle! There you are!” This time, it’s Dinesh, clad in one of those tight short-sleeved tops he seems to favor now his workout regime is starting to bear fruit. “You’re meant to be in the Scrum of Scrums with me now.”

Monica has heard about the Scrum of Scrums, which is basically nerd-speak for what normal people would call a cross-team status meeting. She bets Gilfoyle doesn’t attend very often.

Dinesh clearly hasn’t come in just to talk about it either. “Also, guys, did you hear about Richard testifying before Congress. Is that scary or what?”

“Yes,” agrees Monica. 

Gilfoyle just looks pissed, but since he usually projects an air of malevolent disdain, Dinesh doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do you think they’ll want to interview us? I might have to get a new suit,” he prattles proudly. He flexes an arm. “Most of my old clothes don’t fit me anymore now I’m really piling on the muscles.”

“Yeah, they’re, uh, definitely muscles,” says Monica politely. She thinks he’s starting to look like someone inflated him with a bicycle pump.

“Don’t you have a Scrum of fucking Scrums to attend?” grumbles Gilfoyle.

“Oh shit. Yeah.” Dinesh heads for the door. “I better go or they’ll start without me!”

Dinesh doesn’t make sure Gilfoyle is following him, and indeed Gilfoyle stays where he is. 

“And there you see the tragic fear of missing out which leads to Dinesh attending every single fucking meeting.”

“Shouldn’t you go too?” asks Monica. She’s curious about what Gilfoyle wanted to say earlier, but she knows he’s unlikely to say it if he thinks she wants to hear it.

“Yes. No.” He pauses as if what he’s about to say is somehow distasteful to him. “It’s your birthday next week.”

“So it is,” says Monica neutrally. She hasn’t mentioned it because she doesn’t want him to think she’s dropping hints, but she’s pleased he knows.

“We should do something,” he says with clear reluctance. “Is there something you would like to do?”

“I guess it would be nice to go out,” says Monica as if she’s given this no thought at all. “Maybe have dinner, go to a movie.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You want to go on a _date_?”

“No!” says Monica, suddenly realizing how weird that sounds after all her insistence on not seeing him too often. “Well, yeah. Kind of. But, you know, just because it’s my birthday and since we’re kind of seeing each other...”

“Is that what we’re doing?” he says with mild amusement. He draws a short, deep breath, steeling himself for something he is clearly unaccustomed to doing. “Well, okay. It’s your birthday and we’re kind of seeing each other. So we’ll go on a date.”


End file.
